Heightened
by always-a-time
Summary: [Powers!AU; canon-era; e/e; slow burn.] Having lived most of her life in denial of her ability, Éponine is thrust into a world of the impossible as she and a group of students work towards stopping not only a ruthless serial killer, but the apocalyptic end of France itself - an end that may be coming sooner than anyone thinks - from the hand of Enjolras himself.
1. Inner Demons

title: **Heightened**

pairing(s): main - Enjolras/Éponine; minor - Marius/Cosette, others to follow

rating: PG-14

summary: Powers!AU; canon-era; e/e; slow burn;_ 'They might have thought nothing more of her than a gamine - a petty-thief with the wide eyes and dishevelled hair, a minx, a whore - but she knew she was better than that. She was better than them, and that let her meet their jeers and insults with the cold, hard gaze of a woman carved from marble.' _Having lived most of her life in denial of her ability, Éponine is thrust into a world of the impossible as she and a group of students work towards stopping not only a ruthless serial killer, but the apocalyptic end of France itself, an end that may be coming sooner than anyone thinks, an end from the hand of Enjolras himself.

AN: For those of you familiar with the Heroes universe, this should be pretty self-explanatory in how this fic could also be a **Heroes!AU** fic. For those of you who are not, it's basically what the label states: **a superpowers AU**. While having watched the Heroes series certainly lends some perspective to this, it is not necessary to read and enjoy this fic.

As these chapters are longer, and the plot more detailed, I expect the updates for this to progress slower in reflection of that. However, you will be graciously awarded for your patience, I can assure you. ;) This is also **a slow burn fic**, so please understand that romance is not necessarily going to be the major plotline in each chapter. We will get there! It will be tortuous and filled with frustrating tension at some point, you'll love it.

_Italics_ denote flashbacks, - _italics -_ encased in dashes denote thoughts.

**There will be OCs in this story** as minor characters to help further the plot along. **If you don't like OCs, don't read this story.**

This is meant to take three volumes to finish, although I'm doubtful of my ability to do so. I would love your encouragement and feedback to help 'em along!

*****Blanket warning on this story for blood + gore, violence, slurs, character deaths. Special warnings for particularly severe events outside of these blanket warnings will be given at the start of a chapter. If you don't think you can handle any of these, I discourage you from reading.*****

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><p><span><strong>Volume One: The End<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter One: Inner Demons<strong>

Some people just didn't know what it was like to live on the streets. They didn't know how the cold wind slapped at your skin, leaving it red and numb until you couldn't feel anything but the pain. They didn't know how sharp stones could feel on bare feet, how they could get infected and leave you in disabled for weeks. They didn't know how even if that happened, you still had to keep walking, because there were others who depended on you and you couldn't let them go hungry, not over something as trivial as being practically unable to walk.

And that was just the people who didn't know.

Yet worse, the people who thought they knew what it was like to live on the street, or even thought that living on the streets was easy. The people who blathered on about it not being that bad when they were just in a bad strait after having a fallout with their ridiculously rich parents, when they still had a roof over their heads and food to eat. The people who handed out sous in front of the church telling stories of how God would save them; the people who thought a few sous would be able to last the poor until then. The people who treated her like she came from the gutter and that because of this she must be a whore. People thought they knew, but they didn't, and the idea of it made her seethe with anger.

Éponine hated these people the most.

She worked hard. Maybe it wasn't always honest work, but she worked, and that was good enough for her. It wasn't as though anyone was offering her some honest work; she gladly would have taken it. Instead she picked pockets and lured unsuspecting bourgeois into her father's clutches. She wasn't proud of the act; she was proud of her skill, her speed and slyness that allowed her to outwit those who would have sneered her way on the streets. There came satisfaction from besting those who thought themselves better than her. It was wrong to steal, she knew, but the feeling of pride that settled deep in her gut - the notion that these men deserved the revenge she exacted on them - it warmed her.

No one could exact revenge like Éponine Thénardier did.

They might have thought nothing more of her than a gamine, a petty-thief with the wide eyes and dishevelled hair, a minx, a whore, but she knew she was better than that. She was better than them, and that let her meet their jeers and insults with the cold, hard gaze of a woman carved from marble.

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><p>Éponine is tired when she reaches the Gorbeau Tenement. Her soles are aching - like they normally do every day - and her hair is tangled from the earlier breeze. She rubs a little at her face, perhaps hoping she could remove some of the dirt that seemed permanently etched there, and lets herself into the building. Azelma had given up maybe an hour earlier than Éponine had, but Éponine had little more than her sister did to show for the extra hour. The coins in her pocket jingle slightly as she digs her hand in to gather them. Her eyes count them out with practiced precision, and she has the total in her mind as she silently drops two of the higher value coins back into her pocket. These she would keep for herself, to add to her 'someday' savings.<p>

Someday, she would get out of here, away from her parents and poverty.

She straightens her back as she enters their small apartment, careful to avoid attracting the attention of their landlady, who had once again taken to trying to catch them at odd hours in an attempt to wrangle the rent out of them. Azelma is seated on the one rickety stool they have, staring out the window. Her mother is on the bed, her own gaze wandering aimlessly around the room, never quite settling on one thing. Éponine wrinkles her nose at the dusty scent in the air.

Since there is nowhere else for her to sit, Éponine puts her coins on the table next to Azelma's and tries her best to pick a clean spot on the floor, crossing her legs as she settles down. The noise of coins clinking on the wood doesn't startle her sister, who is still looking outside. The silence is absolutely deafening, making Éponine want to scream. Her family is an empty shell of what it once was. Ghosts of happier times flicker pass her eyes, all she can remember of a time when she was fed and happy.

_"Faster, 'Ponine!" Azelma's squeaky voice rang with laughter in Éponine's ears as she strove to push her sister's swing higher and higher towards the sun. Her sister's shiny red hair dazzled in the bright sunlight like strands of copper. Éponine thought of her own dark locks and immediately felt a hint of jealousy._

_"I'm trying," she protested when Azelma continued to whine, which was true, because Éponine's skinny arms were growing achy and tired from the sheer amount of effort she was putting in. "That's as high as I can make it go. You have to help too. You have to swing your legs."_

_"Whee!" Azelma swung back and forth as Éponine backed away, watching Azelma pump her chubby legs up and down. A shoe flew off somewhere in between swings, and Éponine watched its arc as it landed in the street._

_"'Ponine," Azelma wheedled from her seat. "My shoe!"_

_"I'll get it," Éponine grumbled, gathering her skirts up. "Don't go anywhere, or maman will be upset. We're not supposed to go in the streets on our own."_

_Peering carefully both ways, there did not appear to be any carriages going by, so Éponine scampered across the dirt road and scooped up the shoe, tucking it into the folds of her dress. Straightening, she jerked her gaze both ways once more before making the return trip._

_She thought she was in the clear when suddenly her foot caught on a bump in the gravel, sending her sprawling forwards into the dirt. The shock of it had her crying out in sheer terror as she hit the ground. Distantly she could hear Azelma shrieking in the background, but the most prominent sound in her ears was the thud-thud-thud of her heart in her chest as the fiacre came barrelling forwards._

_Éponine could not see what was going on at the time, but later Azelma would tell her that the horses had spooked, trying to move out of the way, but the carriage would still roll over both of her scrawny legs. Her scrawny, grey-coloured legs. Éponine wouldn't remember what happened after, how her sister had braved the street to pull her unconscious body to safety, inspecting her body for damage yet finding nothing but the fading granite colour._

Neither of them had told their parents about the incident, and eventually, being as young as she was at the time, Azelma forgot about it.

Éponine pulls a rock out of her other pocket, cradling it in her hand. She runs her fingers over its smooth surface, slick from years of river water washing over it. It is a pleasant, dull grey colour that soothes her, grounds her. Focussing on it, she can imagine what it would be like to be fashioned from the same material. To be hard and unbreakable. To be untouchable and unafraid. What she wouldn't give to not have to be afraid anymore. The stone twitches in her palm, its cool surface warming at the contact with her skin.

With the proper amount of concentration, she makes the same soothing feeling spread across her hand, as though it radiates from the stone. Ever so slowly, the grey tinge seeps into the pores of her fingertips, slipping into her very being until her entire hand seems encased in marble. Her eyelids flicker as she feels the familiar surge of power just underneath her skin. It was getting easier, now, to give herself over to that cold, empty feeling. To let go.

Éponine swallows and flexes her fingers around the rock. Her fingers are a cool grey colour, with veins of a darker grey running through them. Strong, she thinks. Indestructible. She looks up, then, to see if anyone has noticed.

No one had.

Standing up, she says to no one in particular, "I'm going." Announcing her plan of coming and going gives her a sense of self empowerment. Éponine goes over to the table, eyes taking in the tiny pile of coins. Reaching out with her marble hand, she scoops up most of it and drops it into her pocket. "I'm not coming back."

No one answers, but Azelma does turn around. Her sister's eyes, dull as the stone in her pocket, merely look sad.

Her hand is still stone as she opens the door, the thud of it hitting the brass knob surprising her. Clutching her hand to herself - the ashen colour is spreading past her wrist and up her arm - she leaves and doesn't look back.

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><p><em>a few days later ...<em>

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><p>The Musain is quiet today.<p>

Enjolras stretches his leg out under the table, rotating the ankle around in slow circles. There is a sense of tightness in the joint, but nothing unbearable. The pain would pass with time, as most things did, and eventually he would forget about it. A lesser man might have complained, might have gone to a doctor for a quick session in order to ease the tension, but Enjolras finds the pain helped him focus. Perhaps he was simply being a masochist, but the dull ache in his ankle was comforting, in a way. It made him feel _normal_.

He hears Combeferre enter the room before the man has even passed through the threshold, and sees his friend make his way over through the curtain of blond hair that falls over his own face.

"I heard you turned your ankle today, _mon ami_," Combeferre begins without preamble. His light brown hair is carefully combed back into staying in place, his ever-present glasses perched on his nose.

"I did," Enjolras says, in a conversational tone. "It is nothing. I hardly feel the pain." He turns the page of the book he is reading over and slides a marker in between the pages before shutting it. "I will endeavour to be more careful next time."

"I could —" Combeferre offers, but Enjolras stops him with a swift jerk of his head, refusing the offer before it is made.

"I am fine," he reiterates.

Combeferre gives him a mildly frustrated look. "What use are these abilities if you do not allow me to use them to help you, Enjolras."

"They are of great use. Perhaps not to me, at this moment, but never underestimate your ability, Combeferre. You've helped a great number of citizens with it. Not many could do as you do so well."

"And yet they have no idea why. They assume me a great doctor, a man of many talents, when I possess but one," Combeferre is fully engrossed in his frustration now, shooting a dirty look out the window as though the world is responsible for this fault. "I have one ability that enables me to comprehend information faster than any normal man, to draw conclusions on physical biology with a single touch. I can tell just by looking at you that you are lying about the pain in your ankle, Enjolras. I owe none of this to my own merits; I owe all this to an ability."

"That is not true. You are a valued friend and confidant to myself, an important part of our group and dear to all of us. Without your guidance, I know for a fact that I would neither be the man I am today, nor where I am today. You've saved me on many accounts, not only physically but mentally as well. Your power, your ability, it is an extension of yourself, a part of you." An annoyed huff. "We've been over this."

"Then what good does my knowledge do me when you refuse my offers to help you?"

"Only this time," Enjolras insists, but Combeferre is shaking his head before Enjolras had even finished. They'd had this particular conversation many, many times before.

"You always refuse. You encourage us to use our abilities for the greater good, to feel free to express ourselves among each other, yet you refuse to acknowledge your own potential or to let any of us help unless it was absolutely necessary. Why do you not allow yourself the same benefits you say we all deserve?"

"I prefer it that way. I am too dangerous." Something in Enjolras' tone signals the end of the conversation.

Combeferre sits down just as Courfeyrac enters, dragging a chair across the floor to join them. The sound of the chair's legs against the ground surely must hurt Courfeyrac's ears, but the man seems unperturbed, merely showing off an easy grin as he slides into his seat. He is quite obviously pleased about something, and just as pleased to tell them about it.

"I bring news," Courfeyrac starts, evidently having decided to lengthen his tale for the sake of his own amusement, "of a new possible friend. He's moved into my apartment building as of today. We had a brief conversation: family, friends, studies. I do believe he fits what we are looking for. Estranged from his father, he lived with his grandfather and aunt, the former of which he does not get along with all of the time, which is actually the reason why he moved out. He was rather nervous and twitchy when I talked with him; he kept glancing outside. No acquaintances of his own to speak of; he's studying law at the same university we attend, albeit two years younger." He rattled off the points with a practiced air of confidence.

"What power do you suspect he has?" Enjolras queries. They were always looking for people with abilities, of course. Some of them could be dangerous if unchecked, and it was Les Amis' responsibility to ensure that any and all they discovered were made to understand just how imperative it was for their powers to remain a secret.

"I don't suspect," Courfeyrac says with a smug grin. "I know."

Combeferre and Enjolras both give him a look that implied that if he didn't continue he was in for some trouble.

"I overheard him on the roof when I went over to welcome him to the building —" Enjolras rolls his eyes at the word 'overheard', but doesn't interrupt. "— and it turns out that this fellow - his name is Marius, Marius Pontmercy, - has the ability to fly."

"He can fly." Combeferre sounds rather unimpressed and skeptical. "You heard him talking to himself about it, but you didn't actually see it?"

"Stranger things have happened, Combeferre." Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow at his friend, drumming his fingers on the table. "You said so yourself that it was possible."

"I said it might be possible. So far all of our abilities could be seen as enhancements of our current capabilities. Your hearing, my ability to understand new ideas easily —"

Courfeyrac is completely set in his opinion of the new boy. "He can fly, I'm telling you. You can see for yourself tonight; I invited him to our meeting."

"That is not alright. You are not allowed to make decisions for our group as a whole, Courfeyrac. It is not only dangerous for him but for all of us. Imagine what happens if he does not possess an ability, or if he decides he wishes to expose us to the world at large. What then?" To say Enjolras is upset was an understatement. "He could go running to the police, or the newspapers. Merde, Courfeyrac, even if he is amicable to joining us, this is too much to spring on one person at once. Don't you remember how Feuilly acted when we first showed him our powers?"

Startled slightly by their leader's outburst, Courfeyrac backtracks a little. "It's fine, we don't have to have him stay the whole time. Just a brief introduction, and you can kick him out afterwards, if you wish. My apologies."

Enjolras takes a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling before offering his friend a small, wry smile. "I didn't mean to frighten you, Courfeyrac."

The man in question snorts. "As if you could."

* * *

><p>Marius Pontmercy goes over his rather limited options on what to wear for tonight's meeting. His new neighbour and friend, Courfeyrac, had invited him out for drinks with some of his friends. He'd known the fellow in passing, having exchanged friendly greetings before. But there was something different about this abrupt invitation to dinner; a nagging feeling in the back of his mind insists that this was no ordinary gathering of friends. Therefore the question was whether he ought to dress to impress. He had but one set of formal clothing left, aside from the outfit he retained for day-to-day wear.<p>

He thinks about the conversation that had transpired that morning, when Courfeyrac had found him on the roof of the building.

_"Welcome to the building, neighbour." Marius jerked around at the greeting from where he had been standing close to the edge of the roof. "Ah, careful there, mon ami. I did not mean to startle you. perhaps we ought to continue this away from there." Marius had seen this older boy around the university campus before, and had exchanged pleasantries. Their families knew each other; therefore he was obligated to try to maintain that acquaintance._

_"Sorry," Marius responded sheepishly. "I was merely taking in the view." In all actuality, he had been contemplating what would happen if he jumped off said roof._

_"A nice view it is," his companion agreed. "Nice to see a familiar face as well. You are Gillenormand's grandson, correct? I remember seeing you in law classes at the university."_

_"Marius Pontmercy," he corrected. "And you are Courfeyrac."_

_"I am." Courfeyrac appeared very pleased, whether it was because Marius remembered his name or because Marius knew his name (all in all two very different things), he was unsure. Courfeyrac was very handsome. He was in possession of a pair of warm eyes that crinkled ever so slightly around the edges and a set of dimples to offset his cheery smile. This visage was topped with a head of thick chestnut curls and a fashionable hat to match his fine clothing. He would have cut an intimidating figure if it was not for the air of friendliness around him. "So what urged you to finally move out and begin living on your own?"_

_Marius hesitated, deliberating. He wasn't sure he was comfortable sharing his woes with a complete stranger, and he surely wasn't comfortable with discussing with anyone about how he felt he could fly. "I had an argument with my grandfather. I left." There. That could be scandalous information - if you cared for that sort of thing - in the wrong hands, but Marius didn't figure Courfeyrac for that kind of person._

_"My apologies," Courfeyrac murmured politely. "If you would like an unbiased listener, feel free to ..." He deliberately left the topic an open one, one that Marius could either continue or refuse if he wished._

_"No apologies needed," Marius said in return. "My grandfather was ... out of line in some of the things he said to me. I'll return as soon as he apologizes for his behaviour. He ... he led me to believe my father hated me, and that I should think the same of my father as he did - that my father had abandoned me and deserved none of my thoughts or sympathies. This turned out to be untrue and I ..." He inhaled sharply. "I have never regretted anymore more in my life that I did not get to see him before he passed."_

_"I am sorry for your loss."_

_"I'm looking for a man my father mentioned in his letter to me - a man named Thénardier. My father was indebted to this man, and I intend to repay him in my father's stead. Have you heard of him?"_

_Courfeyrac appeared crestfallen. "Alas, I have not. But I will most certainly ask others on your behalf to aid you in this quest."_

_"Thank you."_

_Courfeyrac hummed in acknowledgment, and a short silence fell over them both before Courfeyrac cleared his throat to speak once more. "Well, if you would like, some of my friends and I are gathering tonight at the Musain for dinner and drinks. You are welcome to join us."_

_Marius nodded in thanks. "I shall keep that in mind, thank you."_

_The man gave him a jaunty smile before heading back inside, leaving Marius to the open air and his own thoughts._

_Treading slowly back to the edge of the rooftop, Marius peered at the people bustling across the streets of Paris below. The wind ruffled at his dark brown curls, blowing a few of them into his eyes, which watered, but he could not be bothered to move them, as he was lost in thought._

_"I could do it," he whispered to himself. "I could fly." But the ground seemed far away, and Marius' courage was not yet enough that he could trust himself not go merely break all his bones on the dirty ground for all of Paris to see. His eyes screwed shut as he replayed his dream in his mind, the recurring dream that had consumed his every waking thought. He would be standing on the balcony of his grandfather's home, on the banister, staring at the green gardens below. He would raise his arms to the sky and fall - and then by some mysterious force he would be in the air, flying through the blue summer skies of Paris._

He hadn't done it, in the end. He couldn't bring himself to. He was a dreamer, but he wasn't suicidal; he valued his life more than his curiosity. There had to be safer ways to test his theory. But the dream still tugged on his consciousness, begging to be heard. Marius couldn't help but feel that somehow he was destined to see his dream realized. As if he was meant to fly and that his vision was merely a prologue to its completion.

Finally deciding on his better clothing, Marius puts them on, donning his hat as well. A bout of fresh air would do him some good; a walk in the Luxembourg Gardens to pass the rest of the afternoon, perhaps.

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><p>It is a bad day today.<p>

Her mousy brown hair is plaited back in a modest fashion, not a single lock escaping, and her equally modest dress is clean and pressed. Her smile is bright and polite as she watches the people in the Luxembourg walk by. Euphrasie Cosette Fauchelevent is as happy as any girl could be, on the outside. On the inside, she is struggling to breathe. Even as the handsome boy from last week makes his regular round past her, she can't bring herself to moon over him. She has other things on her mind, today. A single thought, however, slips past her mental shields.

_— have to find out where the Musain is Courfeyrac didn't tell me maybe a fiacre driver will know —_

Cosette examines her dainty hands with displeasure and tries to block out the cacophony of noises and sounds now rattling through her head. It's painful, this rush of unintelligible thoughts. She had thought that she had it under control. She had thought that she had practiced enough to go out in society like a normal bourgeoisie girl. Her hands start to shake. She can hear her father's worry before he voices it.

"Are you alright?" Her papa's voice sounds the same in her mind; a quiet, kind murmur with just a hint of a manly rumble.

She chokes back a sob, but he doesn't seem to notice that. She's gotten good at pretending, lately. "I am fine. I think it may be a little cold." Cosette directs her gaze to the tree opposite them. The green, veined leaves lead to thin branches that sway in the gentle breeze like reeds reaching up towards the azure sky. With some effort, her walls push back up; she is once again sealed off from the thoughts of the outside world.

"It's nearly summer." Her papa looks worried for her, bless him. She can't imagine her life without him, even with all she now knows he's been keeping from her. She remembers that first night - the first night she had discovered this, this _curse_ - very well.

_She was getting ready for bed, smoothing out her sheet and bed covers. Cosette was clad in her nightgown, yawning sleepily as she eyed the bright moon outside. Slivers of milky moonlight danced across the carpeted floor as she drew the velvety beige curtains shut._

_Cosette was ready to close her eyes at let the day melt into dreams when she thought she had heard something. A voice in the back of her mind that sounded just like her papa's. Startled, she sat up, staring around her empty room. The dresser, the mirror, her wardrobe ... There was no one else; she was being silly. And yet ..._

_"Papa?" she whispered, as though this was merely a game of hide and seek. There was no reply, of course, because her papa was in his room, with the door closed but never locked, and she was imagining his voice in her mind, a product of her sleeplessness and a restless mind._

_Cosette settled back under the covers and tried to relax, but the itching notion that something was wrong continued to intensify, even as she tried to ignore it. The voice in her mind - her papa's voice, there was no denying it now, - echoed within the recesses of her consciousness. For some reason she felt as though she was trespassing on something sacred when she slid her eyelids closed to concentrate. Words filtered into her mind as she tried to decipher them, which became a muddle of sounds and noise that overwhelmed her completely._

_— running low on strawberry jam will have to go to the market tomorrow to pick some up —_

_— dear god please bring my family good health and happiness amen -—_

_— got to get out of here got to get away away run run run faster —_

_— painful and terrifying and she couldn't turn it off oh why wouldn't it stop please stop please please no more I'm sorry —_

_The last thought was hers, and a quiet sob escaped her as she covered her ears, rocking back, causing her head to hit the board attached to her bed frame. It lasted an indeterminable amount of time, her mind crying out in agony as she bit down on the insides of her mouth to keep from screaming. Eventually the voices died away, one by one fading into the back depths of her mind, and everything was silent once more. She wiped the tears away; she fixed her hair. Cosette managed to calm down enough to convince herself that everything would be okay. It wouldn't be._

"I am fine; I am sure it will pass," she says gently. She is lying through her teeth. Things had only gotten worse from there, and although she was slowly learning to control her curse, it did not shield her from the harsh truth of her past. Nothing could shield her from that, anymore.

Her father was a convicted criminal, and while she did not think less of him for doing what he had done for the sake of his family, she hated that he felt the need to conceal it from her. He'd stolen a loaf of bread and gone away to the galleys for years. He'd revitalized a small town, providing good work and education for all through his ingenuity. He'd given all of that up for the sake of another man who had been falsely accused of bearing his identity, and had kept his promise to Fantine to look after her daughter. Cosette couldn't imagine her beloved papa toiling away in some shipyard, wasting away his remaining years. It was so unfair; her father was a wonderful, generous, pious man and surely deserved so much more.

Her mother had given up her own life for Cosette, had sacrificed so much to ensure her daughter's survival. She'd given so much ... and life in return had given her so little. Fantine had left her fine things behind one by one to raise her daughter. Her dresses and pearls, her health and dignity, her teeth, her hair. She'd been willing to sell her soul to the streets, something which Cosette knew must have left a lasting mark, and would have always left a lasting mark, should her mother had lived. There are some events in life you can never come back from, she thinks.

The two people Cosette loves most in her life were both dealt uncaring hands by society; society had left them to fend for themselves, to suffer. The mere thought of it starts a burn in the back of her throat, leaving her unable to breathe. Cosette turns her head away from her father's caring gaze, unable to bear it.

She was sick and tired of secrets, but she couldn't bring herself to reach out to him, not now, not with this. This ... this she would deal with on her own, or at least until her father felt he was able to finally tell her the truth. This she would bear on her own; her own form of penance. To suffer thus was nothing compared to the torment her mother must have known.

* * *

><p>They are finishing up their fifth game of dominoes when Bossuet realizes they're going to be late. Seated around the table with him are Bahorel, Joly, and Grantaire. Feuilly was another friend who frequented their table, but today the man had work to do, as he had informed them previously.<p>

Clearing his throat, Bossuet voices his concern of the time to the table. "We ought to finish now, if we want to arrive in time for the meeting."

Grantaire's eyes - always sharp when playing dominoes or cards - flicker to Bossuet's face. "Are you sure that isn't only because you are about to lose?" he asks, a hint of a teasing smirk playing at his lips.

Joly checks his brass pocket watch. "We are! We need to leave right away. Enjolras will be displeased if he hears we arrived late because of this." He looks nervous at the thought of it, and Bossuet unthinkingly offers his friend a smile of reassurance.

"And he won't hear of it, as long as no one tells him and we arrive on time." Bahorel rolls his dark eyes at them all, but helps scoop the dominoes into their proper pouch. They push their chairs back and gather their things. It will not be a long walk to the Musain, but every minute they waste here will surely count in the end.

Joly is hustling them out the door when Bossuet's foot catches on some unimaginably nonexistent dip in the ground, and his only thought then is 'oh no not again' before he goes sprawling to the earth, taking Joly with him. Bossuet ends up using his poor friend as a sort of cushion, landing awkwardly on all fours while Joly's arm is twisted at a bad angle between them. Joly gasps in pain, and Bossuet makes a frantic noise of apology.

"I'm so sorry, _mon ami_, I didn't mean to —"

"— we all know you didn't mean to," Grantaire interjects, shaking his head in disbelief. "Are you sure your ability is not simply incredibly bad luck, Bossuet?"

"— are you alright?" Bossuet finishes, even though the question is ridiculously redundant. As he pushes himself off of Joly and offers his friend a hand up, Joly is already setting the bone back in place, the fracture healing over and the skin knitting itself back up. The only evidence that remains of the incident is the bloody mess Bossuet has turned Joly's shirt into.

"You can borrow my jacket," Bahorel says, handing over his navy blue blazer. Bossuet notes it will be a little wide in the shoulders for his lean friend, but hardly noticeable from a distance. "Now let's go - I don't fancy a lecture from our golden leader today."

"I'm fine, thank you." Joly sounds a little shaken, as he always does when something of this nature occurs, but he returns Bossuet's smile with his own shaky one. "I know you don't mean to, Lesgles." Joly accepts Bahorel's jacket with a 'thank you', and drapes it over his good arm as he rolls back his sleeve to examine the results up close. The skin is, as expected, completely unmarred, merely pale and lightly freckled as usual. "Do you think it was possible for it to get infected?" Joly asks worriedly.

"Combeferre went over this with you. Your body heals itself; it will also therefore rid itself of any infections." Grantaire is surprisingly the voice of reason here, and Joly visibly calms a bit at his words.

"Still —" Joly begins haltingly, but a sharp look from their dark-haired friend quells the protest.

The rest of the walk to the Musain is thankfully uneventful. They encounter Feuilly along the way, their friend tilting his cap in a gesture of greeting.

"How was your afternoon?" Feuilly inquires.

"Much the same," Bahorel replies idly. "We played dominoes; Bousset's bad luck ended in Joly encountering bodily harm; Joly healed. A typical day for us, I suppose." An easy grin spreads across his angular face.

"It does," Feuilly agrees, just as the Musain comes into view.

Joly checks the time. "We are not late," he declares in a pleased tone. Grantaire grabs the door and holds it open for them as they file into the cafe one by one. Bousset sees their lion-haired leader seated at a small table with Combeferre and Courfeyrac and goes over to meet them.

"L'Aigle," Courfeyrac addresses him with his usual cheerful manner. "Take a seat. Let me tell you about the new fellow I invited to dine with us tonight - Marius Pontmercy." The name sounds familiar to him, so he pulls up a chair and see the others, most likely having heard the story of this new boy already.

"I met Marius Pontmercy on the roof of my apartment building earlier this afternoon —"

* * *

><p>Grantaire cradles his goblet of wine as he sits down next to Bousset, only half-listening to Courfeyrac's story to ensure that this new addition to their group won't cause him any troubles. He feels Enjolras' brief, disdainful scrutiny on the back of his head as he takes another sip of wine, and he tries to ignore it. Enjolras' attention on him is always some variation of displeasure, and while he wishes he could pretend to be used to it, he is not. It is a dull ache in his heart that alcohol will never wash away.<p>

His friends may think him useless and cynical, but only the latter is really true. He's done more for them than they can and will ever know, and if he has his way it will remain so. His friends may think him a drunkard, but he hasn't been drunk in a long, long time. He's merely gotten good at faking it. Enjolras might think his power pointless, but it's the farthest thing from the truth.

Another sip of wine slides down his throat, and Grantaire smacks his lips a little. He downs the rest of the bottle in a hurry, the drink burning slightly as it slithers into his gut. Bousset shoots him a worried look, which Grantaire simply grins at.

"High tolerance," he reminds his friend, patting his stomach. Bousset does not appear to be fully reassured, but turns his attention back to Courfeyrac.

There is a subtle shift in the atmosphere as Courfeyrac's new acquaintance makes his grand entrance. Grantaire can hear the boy's nervousness in his short breaths and stuttering heart. Marius Pontmercy is fairly tall for his age, lanky with a head of dark curls rather similar to Grantaire's own, except while his are dishevelled and messy, this boy's hair is neat and well-kempt. Pontmercy is clad in a formal outfit of some poor taste, although if Marius and Courfeyrac become fast friends as Grantaire believes they will, this fact will soon change. Marius' blue eyes wander the room before settling on Courfeyrac, and he then proceeds to make his way over, eager for the attention of the room to fade away from him.

"Marius," Courfeyrac greets him, standing up to shake his hand. "I am pleased you decided to come."

Pontmercy offers a hesitant smile in return. "Thank you for inviting me." He looks from Bousset to Grantaire, and Grantaire listens as Lesgles introduces himself.

Grantaire offers a hand for Marius to shake. "Grantaire. My friends also know me as "Grand R', or simply, 'R'."

"Baron Marius Pontmercy." The young freckled man has a firm handshake, his palm warm in Grantaire's. Grantaire can feel the slight tingle of energy shutter through the contact; he sees the brief flicker of golden light around their palms that tells him the power has successfully been copied to his repertoire of abilities. Grantaire tests out the feel of this new capability.

Flying might prove useful, eventually. It wouldn't do to go flying around Paris in broad daylight, of course, but in the case of an emergency ... Grantaire's lip thin as he thinks of Enjolras, a man who sometimes could only be described as reckless. Those who flew too close to the sun would get their wings melted, he thinks in amusement, although he can't quite see how the tale relates to him and his fierce leader just yet, he's sure if he continues to ponder the metaphor it will make sense eventually.

As the evening passes on, more of Les Amis meander over to meet the newcomer, and Grantaire can't help but mentally tick off each power on his checklist.

Combeferre; intuitive aptitude. The ability to understand and comprehend how things worked effortlessly. He was able to deduce all of their powers easily shortly after meeting them (with the exception of Grantaire himself), and frequently used his ability to help in his medical studies, especially while volunteering his services to the poor. It served the medical student well to be able to pinpoint the exact ailment someone had been infected with, or the nature of a broken bone or fracture.

Feuilly; shape-shifting. Shifting one's facial features into any other previously seen form, but only after physical contact is established. Feuilly was not simply a man of many hats - he was also a man of many faces, as Grantaire often liked to joke about.

Jehan; superhuman strength. Jean Prouvaire also possessed a split-personality, and it had originally had been debated whether this was a side-effect of his power (which Grantaire knew to be false); Combeferre had eventually negated this statement. Jehan typically refused to use his ability to its maximum potential, believing it to be a trigger for his other side.

Bahorel; illusionist. Although he frequently complained about the apparent physical uselessness of his power, he did seem to enjoy using it on others, whether it was tricking Joly into seeing plague rats scurrying on the streets when they walked together, or charming pretty girls with his 'magic tricks', as he dubbed them.

A couple others, as well, who did have powers but were not granted entrance into the exclusive group of close-knit friends in Les Amis d'ABC: the ability to generate fire; to freeze things; to move the earth. These were mostly elemental based and dangerous if left uncontrolled.

And then, lastly, Enjolras makes his way over to their table to greet Marius. Introductions are exchanged, and Enjolras' sharp blue gaze begins to size up their newcomer.

"What is your opinion on the monarchy?" he quips, his casual tone at odds with what Grantaire knows to be the seriousness of the question.

Marius responds, "I am a Bonapartist," and goes on to elaborate, much to Grantaire's dismay. Enjolras' brows furrow, and a tiny line appears in between them, creasing his otherwise perfect features as he listens to Pontmercy's political beliefs. Marius, seemingly oblivious to the annoyance this has caused their blond leader, continues to speak at length about the finer points of Napoleon.

What was originally intended to be a friendly first conversation quickly dissolves into a debate, and Grantaire leaves the table in favour of the good company of their other friends.

* * *

><p><em>later that evening ...<em>

* * *

><p>Night has enveloped the city, chasing away the shadows and light only to fill her surroundings with murky blackness. A few dim lanterns flicker from their windows, but other than that it is dark. Éponine's stony grey skin goes unnoticed as she prowls through the alleyways to the elephant dwelling of her younger brother, Gavroche. Knocking her fist against the leg, Éponine can feel the reverberations throughout her entire body.<p>

A tiny, dirt-streaked face appears above her: her brother's face. Éponine can make out the quiet murmur of "It's 'Ponine," to the other gamins in the elephant before a rope is tossed down for her. Éponine fades the marble from her hands so she can get a good grip, and begins to climb. The strength of the marble in her biceps allows her to hoist her stone-cold self up inside the shelter, but as she nears the top she forces the rock away, not wanting to scare the two littler ones that Gavroche shares his home with.

"Éponine," Gavroche greets her, offering her a hand up. She accepts it with muttered thanks, adjusting her ratty skirts as she takes in the height of the ceiling before pulling herself fully upright. "What brings ya' here?"

"I've left," is all she says, simple and to the point. The look that passes between the two siblings is one of understanding as a pause develops.

"About time," Gavroche replies, and that appears to be the end of that conversation.

"Can I - can I stay here? For tonight? Been wandering around the city the last few days, tryin' to find you." Éponine bits down on her lower lip. Truthfully, she'd been reluctant to go see her brother. They hadn't exactly been on the fondest of terms when Gavroche had left their family, but she had thought that out of all of them she was the one he had been closest too. Family was still family, and she figured that taking her chance with Gavroche was better than being alone.

A tiny smirk works its way across Gavroche's lips. "'Course ya' can. No extra blankets, though. Just me an' the boys." Gavroche ruffles one of the little boy's hair affectionately, causing the younger one to immediately try to squirm away at the touch.

"I have money," she offers, as a sort of repayment. "We can buy food tomorrow."

An eyebrow raises a little at that, most likely because Gavroche knew where it had come from, but he doesn't ask. "Sounds good," he allows. Gavroche gestures the two curious gamins back to bed. "You can share my blanket with me." Gavroche directs this statement at her.

The small candle is put out, and Éponine curls up awkwardly next to her brother.

"Thank you," she whispers.

Gavroche doesn't reply, he merely pulls the thin wool blanket over them both, allowing Éponine to drop off to her first restful sleep in weeks.

* * *

><p><strong>To be continued ...<strong>

Please remember to follow, favourite, and leave your reviews for this first chapter!


	2. Strange Encounters

AN: I had nearly finished this chapter before I realized that Enjolras isn't even in it. So, apologies for that. I deliberately started on the next chapter with him! So there's that to look forward to. ;) Besides, I'm sure you'll love the other characters just as much. Other than that, enjoy!

*****No outstanding warnings for this chapter.*****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two: Strange Encounters<strong>

Marius stares up at the ceiling of his apartment. His legs seem as though they've given up on him after the long, slightly drunken trek home. After his rather ... riveting conversation with Enjolras, Marius had retreated into a couple cups of wine at Courfeyrac's invitation as the group discussed politics as a whole. It wasn't until a good glass-and-a-half in that he realized verbal sparring was in fact a common occurrence among these men and that there was no harsh judgement upon losing an argument.

He felt a kind of kinship with them already, a strange feeling after having only known them for an evening, but they welcomed him into their circle with open arms, as though he was meant to be there. Following the political part of their meeting they'd joked, played cards, and even arm-wrestled a few times (Marius had lost each and every match with good grace). Marius had finally realized what he had been missing cooped up in his grandfather's home, and was more than eager to taste what independent life had to offer him.

There's a short knock at the door, jarring him from his thoughts.

Cautiously, Marius approaches the door. "Hello? Who is it?"

"It's me. Courfeyrac." Marius relaxes his tense shoulders and fumbles to open the door.

"What brings you here? I thought you had turned in for the evening."

"I simply wondered what you thought of our group, as well as a few things to tell you. I did not want to ask with all of the others around, and I knew you could not have gone to bed just yet. I thought we could talk a little more, if you do not mind the intrusion."

In light of this statement, Marius couldn't help but feel that tonight had been some sort of test and that he'd miserably failed. Still, he opened the door, gesturing him inside. Courfeyrac claims a chair for himself, and Marius perches himself on the edge of his bunk, a tad wary. "I had a very enjoyable evening. Your friends are very intriguing and entertaining," Marius hedges, hoping that his response isn't construed as offensive.

Courfeyrac beams. "Wonderful. I knew you would fit right in with us, Marius. I do hope you'll accept my next invitation to the next meeting. I trust you overheard Enjolras informing everyone of the date?"

Marius nods, not trusting his voice.

"Do you have any questions?" Courfeyrac presses, slouching back in the chair slightly. "I was under the impression that some of my friends' behaviours can be a little ... confusing."

Marius forces his face to remain neutral rather than letting it rearrange itself into an expression of complete perplexity. "Oh, no. They seemed perfectly normal to me," he lies, because for most of the time they had been.

"Right," Courfeyrac says, fiddling with his coat buttons. "I'll leave you to your evening, then. _Bon nuite_."

"_Bon nuite_." Marius stands and lets Courfeyrac out before resuming his spread-eagle position on the bed. That had been the odd part of the evening. He had recognized that some things going on in the Musain had been out of place, yet he had felt ... comfortable, completely accepting of it.

"_Marius, come here. Come arm-wrestle Prouvaire!" Bahorel was waving him over, so Marius reluctantly removed himself from where he had been seated next to Combeferre to go over and meet Jean Prouvaire._

_Upon reaching the table, Marius realized that Prouvaire was in fact the last member of Les Amis d'ABC he would be introduced to, and that he had not so much as caught a glimpse of the man until this moment. Jean Prouvaire was a tall, lean man with pale skin and a slight dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose, his lively green eyes framed by reddish-blond hair that would fall just past his shoulders if it was not for the navy blue hair tie that kept it back. "Jean Prouvaire?"_

"_Marius Pontmercy," Prouvaire greeted in return, standing and offering his hand. "My friends call me Jehan." Marius shook it firmly. Prouvaire - or Jehan - he supposed, who had seemed a little meek and soft-spoken at first, had a very strong grip. Marius recalled the original purpose of his approach and blanched slightly._

_The man who had introduced himself as Grantaire laughed a little, a short, barking sound. "I think he's figured it out, Bahorel."_

"_Come on, it will be fun," Bahorel promised, and although Marius was unsure who he was promising this to, he had a feeling it wasn't him._

"_I am agreeable if Marius is," Jehan offered a gentle smile, setting his arm up on the table top._

_Marius didn't want to dampen the mood, or to be seen as someone who was 'no fun', so he sat down in the empty chair left out for him and took Jehan's hand in his once more. The other man had a good grip, and Marius knew that this impromptu contest was over before it had even started._

"_Go easy on him," Bahorel encouraged, and this time he was definitely talking to Prouvaire. Marius swallowed._

"_On three," Grantaire prompted, thumping his hand on the table with each count., "One ... two ... three!"_

_Marius shoved all his strength up against what was essentially a brick wall. The gentle smile was still in place, perhaps a little amused as Marius tried to budge Jehan's unmovable arm._

"_I said go easy on him," Bahorel commented._

"_I am," Jehan replied, and Marius felt the arm slacken slightly, allowing him to gain some leverage before the arm stiffened once more._

"_I would feel bad for you, if we all hadn't gone through this same experience at least once. Bahorel has tried numerous times to no avail." Grantaire was straddling his chair as he watched the match with affected interest._

_Jehan hadn't so much as broken sweat, and was actually using his other hand to take a sip of what appeared to be a cup of water. Marius was ready to give up when it seemed Jehan had come to the conclusion that there was no point in prolonging his agony, forcing Marius' arm firmly back across and pinning it to the wooden surface._

"_That was amusing, but now it's my turn again," Bahorel insisted, moving to take Marius' place. Marius offered it up gladly, happy to get away from his crushing defeat. Bahorel sat down and flexed his not unimpressive biceps. Jehan rolled his eyes, but offered his arm again, which Bahorel took._

"_One, two, three," Grantaire said in a bored tone, as though he'd seen the outcome of this only too many times._

_Jehan slammed Bahorel's arm into the table hard enough to upset the drinks. Apparently Prouvaire had not been lying when he had said he had been going easy on him._

_Bahorel did not seem upset, only determined, shaking his arm out slightly. "Best two out of three."_

It had continued a couple more times until Bahorel had given up 'for today'. Marius had wondered how anyone could willingly put themselves in the sort of position where they would lose and lose again to someone who seemed to be an unbeatable opponent. Jean had told him that they'd often used his ability to win bets against other students by challenging them to such displays of strength, putting the money towards helping the poor. This was a cause that Marius could throw himself into wholeheartedly.

Shifting onto his side, Marius notices his eyes have begun to droop, and sits up to remove his formal wear lest he wrinkle and crease it by sleeping in it. He would see Courfeyrac tomorrow, in all likelihood. He would learn some more about Les Amis d'ABC and their causes then. Tonight, he would sleep.

* * *

><p>Night bodes strange dreams for the restless, something he is most familiar with. The moon had settled out of view a while ago, leaving his bedroom encased in inky blackness, save the small candle he kept lit on his nightstand. A slow breeze crawls into the room, rippling the sheets beneath him.<p>

Javert drags himself up to shut the window and draw the curtains, still disgruntled by the idea of sleep. There were already dark circles under his eyes, the result of a week filled with sleepless evenings and groggy mornings. His fellow officers had expressed their concern, had suggested he get some more rest. Today it had come to a head - his commanding officer had ordered him home early afternoon with the strict order to rest and sleep.

Yet he could not.

Sleep only brought nightmares and strange visions. A God-fearing man may have thought them prophecies, but he knew better. Common sense had driven him to ignore these dreams, these cursed visions, but common sense did not provide nourishment for the sleep-deprived mind. Still, the same nightmare that had plagued him for days would return to haunt him with a vengeance tonight, he was sure.

Disgruntled, Javert retreats to his bed, snuffing out the candle and clasping his hands across his chest, attempting to get comfortable. He can almost make out the imperfections in the ceiling if he stares hard enough. Scowling now, he closes his eyes, tries to rest as instructed, tries to ignore the soft ticking of his pocket watch from across the room.

Hours later he feels no better, and is still as awake as he had been to start with.

His eyes open, and he lets his gaze linger around the room, stopping on a small cabinet in the far corner. The liquor cabinet. Javert's lip curls in distaste. He only ever indulges in alcohol lightly, when there are guests, which in itself is a rare enough occasion. But perhaps a half glass would not be amiss if it could help him to sleep.

Two glasses later he feels ready enough to make another attempt.

Eyelids heavy and heart thumping languidly in his chest, Javert reluctantly allows his body and mind to rest.

_The dream begins as it always does._

_July 27, 1832._

_The sun shines overheard, not quite as bright as it ought to be. The dark shadow of the moon looms nearby, inching its way across the oceanic skies. His heart palpitates in his chest, but he is not quite sure why. _

_He's standing in the middle of an empty city square, and the world seems to spin as he takes in the people around him. He recognizes a few of them. Two of these faces he knows too well. Grey-haired and haggard, Prisoner 24601 seems aged beyond his years, watching after a younger brown-haired woman he knows to be Fantine's daughter. She is standing a good distance away from him, and although Valjean is calling to her she is shaking her head, almost sadly, linking arms with a boy Javert does not recognize._

_Above, the moon shifts, taking its place in front of the sun._

_The world is plunged into momentary darkness, as Javert allows his eyes to adjust to the new, dimmer lighting. Breaths are held, there is the muffled racket of a scuffle nearby, then pure silence._

_Time flies by quickly, the world shifting and flickering around him. It could be minutes, hours, days. An indeterminate period later time resumes its normal pace, and Javert reorients himself in the landscape, eyes readjusting once more._

_Suddenly, someone shouts. A female; a gamine who runs barefooted across the open square, a dark mass of tangled hair behind her, an expression of terror across her face. She stumbles towards the happy couple, her arm reaching out to them. Another sound rings out, and she trips and falls, sprawled at their feet. The pair's expression mimics the gamine girl's as they fall to their knees and pull her limp form up —_

_She's been shot._

_Blood runs thick and red onto the ground, spreading through the cracks in the cobblestone as the other girl wails in despair. Javert watches as the life drains from the street waif's face for a brief moment before shifting his gaze to the left. He knows what is coming next, who is coming next._

"_No." The voice is wracked with guilt, streaked through with agony. The animal howl of pain that tears through the air is a terrible sound. "ÉPONINE!" His once tall, proud form trembles with emotion as he falls, the solid thunk of his weight hitting the ground reverberating around him. Gold curls appear tarnished in the dim light as he grips the waif's hands, tears seemingly made of glass slipping onto the ground._

_Time falls still, and then there is one moment of perfect clarity before everything is alight._

_The revolutionary's body, shuddering with grief, glows brightly, as bright as the sun, the sun that is now slowly being unshielded by the moon in the sky. The light increases in its intensity until it becomes unbearable to watch, and as Javert feels himself pulled from the dream he knows that it can only end one way: absolute destruction._

* * *

><p>Éponine wakes with a gasp. The space beside her is empty, but the two little boys are awake, gawking at her with wide eyes and tiny pressed lips. Glancing between them both, Éponine sits up, placing a trembling hand to her pounding chest. She can't remember what she had been dreaming about, it all seems foggy and unclear. "Where's Gavroche?" she asks them.<p>

The two boys exchange a look, and the smaller one speaks up, puffing his stature a little as he straightens up. "He left to get food. He told us to stay an' look after you."

The older of the boys approaches, cautiously. "You was screamin' while you slept."

That doesn't sound too far from the truth, she thinks, trying to slow her breathing. After a pause she speaks again, "Did I say anything?"

They shake their heads. "I'm Julien," the taller one introduces himself boldly. He pushes his brother forward a step. "This is Dion."

Dion is tiny and small, but he seems encouraged by his brother, offering Éponine a broad smile. "Hiya, miss." His grin is toothy, with a black gap in the top row that Éponine finds to be endearing.

Éponine holds out her hand and lets Dion plant a clumsy kiss to the back of it. She's charmed by the cheeky little dimples on either side of the little boy's face. He reminds her of Gavroche when he'd been younger, back when their family had lived in Montfermeil. Dion has the same tousled brown hair and doe eyes she remembers. Gavroche doesn't look like that anymore, though, not after years on the streets had hardened him. Éponine feels a jolt of sadness at that.

Julien snorts derisively. "Dion thinks he's a gentleman." Dion looks embarrassed, gnawing pitifully on his lower lip as he frowns at his older brother.

"Well, I think more boys should try to be gentlemen," Éponine allows, standing and arranging the blanket by folding it into a neat stack. "When do you think Gavroche will be back?"

Dion and Julien exchange a glance and shrug in unison. "Depends," Julien says, "he might not run into trouble this time since he's got th' money you gave him." The boy eyes Éponine defensively for a moment. "Are ya' really Gav's sister?"

"I am. We lived in Montfermeil together. Our parents had an inn," Éponine says briefly, her brown eyes flickering away from their faces. "It was alright for a while, but when papa lost the inn we moved to Paris."

"Why'd ya' leave?" Julien asks, a light hint of accusation in his voice. Éponine doesn't blame him, because while she might have had a hard time these two boys had been abandoned. Éponine had been taught the ways of the streets by her father, while Julien and Dion had to fend for themselves.

"I left 'cause our parents aren't the best people, alright? I didn't want to live with them anymore and I can take care of myself. I wanted to come see Gavroche." The simplest explanation is often the best, and this time is no exception. Éponine didn't want to delve into the tangled mess that was her past; she'd seen more than enough of it in her mother's deadened gaze, her sister's indifference, and the bitter, cruel twist of her father's lips.

"Gavroche is back," Dion says excitedly, peering down through the opening, his head hanging so far over the edge that it has Éponine worried for his safety.

"Come back here, _petit_," Éponine says. She tugs at his little hand until he is a safe distance away, and then carefully stares down the rope at her brother, who offers a cheeky wave.

"Time to wake up and walk about. I've got some bread and a special treat." Gavroche waves a large loaf in the air, making Éponine's mouth water. The two boys must feel the same, because they both go scrambling down the rope, their feet hitting the dirt ground lightly. Éponine herself slides down a little less gracefully, wincing the slightest bit as her bare soles land, but there is no feeling of pain. Instead, Éponine can make out the hints of grey around the bottom of her feet.

The boys don't seem to notice, as they are engrossed in their meal. Chunks are ripped off from the bread and devoured quickly by three greedy mouths. Gavroche holds out a piece to her and she takes it absently, chewing the rough texture of the half-burnt loaf as she lifts her right foot and rotates the ankle to examine the sole. The grey is fading fast, now, but she can see the dark tint of it in her veins before it vanishes completely. The sight of this unnerves her. Is it in her blood? What should happen to her if she should turn completely to stone? She can hardly bring forth the marble when she wants it, let alone prevent it from appearing accidentally.

Éponine gnaws on her lower lip for a second before remembering to eat. She shoves another smaller chunk of bread into her mouth in an unladylike fashion.

"Where're we goin' t'day, Gav?" Julien asks, his young voice muffled by the large mouthful he is trying to swallow.

"Around," Gavroche says idly. "See where we end up, maybe. Or maybe 'Ponine can show us 'round her spots. Maybe visit the Corinthe and see if the rebels are there."

"Rebels?" Éponine finds herself asking, blinking at this new revelation.

"They hang around there sometimes, to plan things. They want change, 'Ponine. They're trying to change things for everyone in France, including people like us. It is all very important," Gavroche adds as an afterthought. "Sometimes they let us carry messages for them."

Dion even offers a nod of agreement, his head bobbing up and down, shaking his mop of reddish hair. "Monsieur Courfeyrac buys us food if we come back quick enough."

"Let's go, then," Julien says, shooting Éponine a challenging look, daring her to disagree. He doesn't seem to have warmed to her in the way Dion already has, his face betraying the wariness Éponine feels around strangers. Dion is not yet as tainted by the streets, has not fully comprehended and seen the horrors of the underworld of Paris. Éponine has seen even the strongest become shells of themselves, worn by time and tragedy, wills broken and dignity shredded. It takes a certain strength to survive, a strength Éponine is proud to bear. While she may not be a clean, shining pearl, bright and unblemished, she had done better with her time, has stewed in the sewers and the grimy alleys, emerging hard and unbreakable.

It is hard to be anything but cold, after all this time, but she thinks she manages a proper smile. "Fine with me."

* * *

><p>Musichetta smooths the wrinkles of her deep purple skirts as she peers at her two boys. "He can fly? That is something I would like to see." She smiles. "So, when do I get to meet this flying boy?"<p>

Joly and Bossuet exchange a glance. "Courfeyrac has invited him to our next meeting. We're not sure if he will be able to come, since he is also attending university this semester," Bossuet says.

"Oh," Musichetta pouts, leaning forward just enough to steeple her fingers beneath her chin in what she knows to be an alluring manner. "But you did tell him I would be coming?"

"O-of course," Joly stutters, a nervous look breaking out across his face. He removes a light blue handkerchief from his frock pocket - a habit of his the Musichetta finds to be a little silly, but she's more than fond of him enough to have gotten used to by now - and blowing his nose. Bossuet gives her an uneasy smile.

She pats his arm. "It is fine, _mes cheries_, the surprise will make it all the better." She pauses, phrasing her next sentence carefully, mindful of their public surroundings at the Corinthe. It would not do to be careless and expose them all, it would not be smart. And Musichetta is most definitely smart, in addition to other wonderful personality traits such as witty, charming, and outspoken. "Have you told him about ...?" Musichetta trails off.

"Ah, no. Not yet. We wished to check with you first, as much as we enjoy trusting Courfeyrac's ... second-hand information ... these are very delicate matters at hand," Bossuet says lightly, and Musichetta mentally applauds the statement. "Marius seems a very well-mannered fellow, and a good addition to the group, even if he is a Bonapartist."

"Very wise." She raises her cup of coffee to her lips, enjoying the way they watch her as she does. After she places the cup back down she sweeps a stray curl back, tucking it behind her ear, thinking that she has both men wrapped around her finger, and she wouldn't have it any other way. "Enjolras must have been annoyed at that, I suppose."

"His face only appeared to be vaguely so, which is something for him," Joly remarks, having rejoined the conversation.

"We rue the day the marble man cracks," Musichetta quips, a wry smile on her lips.

Bossuet smiles as well, but Joly does not share the feeling. "It could be very dangerous. It is very important Enjolras keeps his emotions in check."

"Relax, _mon ami_. It will not come to that," Bossuet says, but Joly appears to be distraught once more.

Musichetta changes the subject, but part of her really does worry; if Enjolras should ever lose control they would all be doomed.

* * *

><p>Feuilly is outside on the steps of the church, finishing his lunch amid the chilly fall air. Autumn has fallen upon Paris like a soft blanket, smothering the ground with its fiery offerings. Wiping a cold sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, he brushes crumbs from his fingers into the dirt on the side of the staircase, thinking that perhaps some birds will enjoy the remnants of his meal.<p>

From a distance, a figure approaches. Gregoire Belair. He had attended the meeting last night, if Feuilly remembers correctly. A cheery, youthful fellow for his age, who had entertained them with humorous tales of calamity at sea. Gregoire is no longer a sailor, having finally settled his roots here in Paris, but his stories easily bring a smile to one's face nonetheless.

"Feuilly, my friend." A soft smiles graces Gregoire's youthful features. "A bit chill today, is it not? How are you enjoying the change of weather?"

"Fair enough," Feuilly replies, as the other man seats himself next to him. His gaze wanders the street before them. "I am not complaining, although I am sure there are those without roofs over their heads who are." He sweeps his hands across his pants, checking for any more debris. "Have you had lunch yet?"

"I have, at a quaint cafe just down the street from here. It's not very far. I'd recommend it." Gregoire rubs a hand over his stomach for emphasis.

"I shall take it under advisement. How did you enjoy the meeting last night?" Feuilly questions curiously. It was not often they had newcomers from other parts of Paris, and to hear an outsider's opinion would certainly be helpful when making contacts in the future.

Gregoire pauses, mulling over his answer. "Very enlightening. I had not known so many of us existed. I must say I feel much ... much more ordinary, if that is a logical response. For the longest time I had believed myself to be the only one. To know others have shared my plight is refreshing, to say the least. I have always felt isolated, especially when I was out at sea, thinking I was alone in having this ... power, this special ability. A freak of nature, perhaps. I remember praying some nights that it would disappear, leave me an normal man. Alas, it was not meant to be, but I think I am the happier for it."

"You are still very unique," Feuilly comments kindly. "Your power is very much one of a kind, as far as I am aware."

"I find it fascinating how you are able to function together so well, as a group, as one unit. News of your group has spread well through the community of those with abilities. Those in other European countries know of your efforts, of how you use your powers to find and help others like us - something I will always be grateful for."

Feuilly turns slightly bashful under the praise. "We are only doing what is right."

"And that is all anyone needs to do to deserve thanks, my friend."

* * *

><p>"This is the Corinthe?" Éponine confirms. She's seen this part of Paris before, but has never been inside this particular place. <em>Probably because of all the bourgeois students that come here<em>, she thinks to herself. _They don't want to be around people like us_. But evidently these young men were different, and had befriended the young gamins, including her brother.

Dion bobs his head, clutching three of Éponine's fingers in his small hand.

"M'sieur Courfeyrac may be at school, but usually someone's here." Julien goes to push open the door for them, a small metal bell jingling above the threshold to signal their arrival.

Éponine feels scruffy and unwashed as she enters, allowing Dion to pull her towards a young man with a headful of riotous curls. "That's R," the small boy says, gesturing.

The man called 'R' looks up at being addressed. "Bonjour." His eyes are rimmed with red and slightly bloodshot. Éponine is immediately reminded of her father's friends, with their booze-infused breaths and their drunken, wandering hands. She clenches her hands slightly, her body stretched taut with nerves. However, when he gazes upon the boys, a smile stretches across his face like a lazy cat, crinkling the sides of his eyes as they light up. "What trouble are you up to today? I see you've brought a friend."

"This is my sister, Éponine." Gavroche says, giving Éponine a little nudge. "Éponine, this is Monsieur Grantaire."

Éponine remembers to curtsy, perhaps a little wobbly, but she thinks it passable enough for a street girl. "Bonjour, m'sieur."

"Well, sit down. I've already ordered enough food for three, which I suppose will be enough for all of you to enjoy until my friends arrive." Grantaire stands, pulling out a chair and gesturing Éponine into it with his hand, a very coordinated feat for someone suffering a hangover. Awkwardly, Éponine sits and lets the student push her back towards table. The boys scramble to claim seats themselves, with Dion sitting on Gavroche's lap.

"Who is comin'?" Gavroche demands without further preamble. "I'd like for 'Ponine to meet ev'ryone."

"Bahorel, if he has indeed decided to miss his afternoon lecture, which I am sure he has. Prouvaire, as well."

Julien perks somewhat at this, Éponine notes. A plate of food is brought over, and Éponine feels the gaze of the woman on her as Éponine averts her eyes, keeping her head held high. Grantaire pushes a plate of food towards them, and the boys tuck in, helping themselves to the minced pie, soup and bread.

Éponine dips a chunk of bread into the soup and eats slowly, savouring the rich taste. Perhaps sticking around would not be too bad.

* * *

><p>Glancing over at his sullen, shaken companion, Bahorel decides to have a go at cheering him up. Concentrating on the path before them, Bahorel focuses on warping Jean Prouvaire's perspective. Bahorel pictures tiny little flowers sprouting up on the sides of the street. Small white and yellow daisies bud and unfurl themselves, stretching their petals towards the sky.<p>

"You do not need to try and cheer me up. I'm fine," Jehan says.

Flowers appear and begin to weave themselves into Prouvaire's plait. "It is the least I can do," Bahorel mumbles.

Jehan gives him a soft look. "People will begin think you are going soft."

"They would not believe you," Bahorel retorts. "Besides, what happened today —"

"— was entirely my fault. I have to learn to control this. It is no one's fault but my own." Jehan looks so upset that Bahorel has to restrain himself from halting right there in the middle of the street and shaking some sense into him.

The illusion of flowers fades away as Bahorel sighs, running a hand through his thick hair. "No one person is perfect, Prouvaire. No one expects you to keep him in check at all times."

"I do not care what the expect. It is what I expect of myself. What if I had not been able to stop myself? What if I had hurt someone?" Jehan is distraught, turning anguished eyes to his friend. "This time, the outcome was acceptable. What about next time? Or the time following that? There is no room for error here. Enjolras never —"

"Enjolras is in a league on his own. You are, at your core, an emotional person, Jean. I would never have it any other way; none of us would." Bahorel places his hand on the other man's shoulder. "Remember that."

Jehan huffs a breath. "I should not have exploded like that. I should not have allowed those taunts to get to me —"

"It was not you. I hope you know that. The man I know," Bahorel slides his hand over Jehan's heart. "Is a good man, who only ever raised a hand to protect others."

"I know, I just —" Jehan turns to gaze at his reflection as they pass a storefront, his expression haunted. "_He_ is always there. _He_ is always with me and I know he will never be gone. How can I live like this, looking over my shoulder for myself? Afraid to see my own reflection for fear that one day I will wake up on that side of the mirror, trapped in my own mind while _he_ runs rampant?"

And Bahorel has nothing to say to that.

* * *

><p>Éponine and the boys have mopped of the last remnants of food when Grantaire's friends arrive, clothes torn and dishevelled. Gavroche's eyes widen to the size of saucers as he pushes out of his chair and scampers over.<p>

"Were you in a fight? What happened? Did you get 'em good?" Julien makes some punching motions in the air.

The shorter, bulkier of the two offers a wan smile, bowing down as Gavroche clambers onto his back. "We did. Some men attempted to rob us by dragging us into an alley."

The other man, one with red, braided hair, slides into the now unoccupied seat, burying his head in his hands. Éponine can sense his worry, can see he is still shaken from the attack.

"Are you alright, m'sieur?" Éponine asks slowly.

Grantaire mirrors her tone, leaning forward and touching his hand lightly. "Prouvaire?" he questions cautiously. "Do you wish to talk about it alone?"

"No, I ..." Prouvaire trails off, fingers clenching and unclenching themselves in the auburn strands. "Yes. Yes I would like that."

"My apartment is not far. I hope you do not mind if we leave you," Grantaire adds, this time directly to her.

"Oh, of course not," Éponine demurs, still trying to make sense of interaction between the two men. They rise to leave, Grantaire draping a friendly arm around Prouvaire's slumped shoulders, speaking in a soft undertone. Even once they are gone, she finds herself still staring at the doorway.

"Is he alright?" Dion asks worriedly, tugging on the remaining man's sleeve.

His dark eyes are sad and worried, even though his expression is light. "He will be. He is merely unnerved. All will be right when Grantaire speaks with him." His eyes, which had been distracted, focus in on her. "I do not believe we have met, mademoiselle. I am Bahorel; the man who left with R is Jean Prouvaire."

"Éponine," she states blandly, uncomfortably startled from her own mind's wanderings. And then, because the relation seemed to explain her presence, "Gavroche's sister."

"Wonderful to meet you, Éponine. A sibling of Gavroche's is a friend of mine."

Éponine wonders silently to herself if all of the members of Les Amis d'ABC were this damn friendly and peculiar.

"What can we do for ya' today, m'sieur?" Julien interjects excitedly, leaning forward on his elbows. The younger boy obviously looks up to Bahorel in particular, she thinks, he was probably one of the students that Julien was most enthused to see.

Bahorel nods. "Enjolras has set the date for our next meeting, five days from today, and I think he would be pleased if you could inform one of our newer members in addition to your usual route. He is not a university student and he works down by the docks. Where exactly I am not sure, but that is where you will aid us, _petit_."

"Another meeting so soon?" Dion questions curiously.

"Only the most important are allowed to come this time," Bahorel answers warmly. "So of course you all are invited."

"Alright," Gavroche grins toothily. "Give us his name, good m'sieur, and we will find him wherever he is."

"His name is Gregoire Belair."

* * *

><p>As soon as they are settled in the cluttered apartment, Grantaire places both hands on Jehan's shoulders, gazing directly into moss green eyes. "Tell me what happened."<p>

_The sun was blinding, even with clouds filtering the rays of light. Jean supposed he ought to avoid looking directly at it, but the sheer intensity of the sunlight draws the gaze like a moth to a flame. It was no surprise, then, that he was taken aback by the copper-haired girl who had moved into their path._

_Her gaze was shifty, flickering from her bare toes to their faces. "M-my mother is very ill," she began in a quavering voice. "If you could p-please spare a few sous ... ?" She lifted her thin arm, dirty palm outstretched, and Jehan felt a pang of empathy for the young child of the streets_

_"Of course, sweetheart. Is your mother nearby? I have a friend who is a doctor, so perhaps we could help," Jehan asks._

_The girl's hazel eyes flicker down the alley next to them, sucking in her lower lip._

_Bahorel frowns. "Is she there? Is she able she walk? We can bring her to the cafe, it is not far. I can carry her."_

_"Oui. M-merci. If you would come to see her ..." Her voice, already soft as a baby's breath, trails off. The entire situation seems off, somehow, and inexplicably Jehan finds his eyes drawn to the storefront on their left. Sharp green eyes and a wickedly curved mouth stare back. The pointer finger on the left hand was raised and wagging back and forth like the pendulum of a clock. Tsk, tsk, the lips mouth, eyebrows lowering into a look of condescension._

_Bahorel had already turned towards the girl, who face twitched with what Jehan recognized to be guilt. He reached for his friend's arm. "Wait," he began, unsure._

_Apparently the seconds hesitation was enough for the men in the shadows to decide to strike. Someone grabbed Bahorel, dragging him into the alley, a tanned hand clamping over his mouth to prevent any calls for help, and Jehan had no choice but to follow. Struggling, Bahorel managed a good solid hit to the ribcage of his captor with his elbow, knocking the wind out of short, balding man._

_A long thin arm shot out and grasped the girl's wrist, yanking her back. "Bloody useless, you are. Éponine never looked half as stupid as you when pulling in a mark —" The girl shook her head back and forth, fear evident on her face as she looked on in mute terror. Jehan's insides twisted sickeningly when he realized that the man was about to hit her, anger bubbling to the surface before he could stop it, strength surging through his body like a tidal wave, an unstoppable force._

_Jehan had time to breath a single name before everything went black. "Felix."_

"I thought I could control him, keep him away …" Jehan's face is downcast, his head lowered in shame. The shadows fall over his soft, pale features in the dim lighting. When Jean's body begins to quaver, Grantaire moves forward to wrap his arms around him, holding him firm and steady as he allows his friend to cry.

"Be strong," Grantaire whispers. "We will get you through this. We will find someone with a power to help … I promise you I will never stop looking. None of us will stop looking." Prouvaire's body continues to shake violently in his grasp, and Grantaire rubs soothing circles on his back with his hands. Jehan was one of the strongest people he knew, mind and body, but when it came to Felix, when it came to the kind of horrifying violence Felix was capable of … Jehan's kind and gentle soul could not handle the idea of inflicting so much pain. "Are you feeling ill?"

Jehan shakes his head, which is buried in Grantaire's shoulder. After a particularly grizzly scene, Jehan tended to become physically ill. Grantaire did not pretend to understand where Felix came from, or whether Jehan's power had appeared due to Felix. Combeferre had explained it all very simply, that Felix was not the source of his power and was in fact a separate entity that existed within only the mind, another persona which would manifest during times of extreme emotional distress. The few times Grantaire had seen Felix were frightening enough. Felix was the kind of man whose gaze could both rip you to shreds and peer into your very soul.

They sit together in the quiet for a while, and after a moment, after replaying Jehan's story in his head, Grantaire realizes he'd missed something.

_"Éponine never looked half as stupid as you —"_

He matches the name to the girl at the Corinthe, places the features of the young girl Jehan had described as the sister of the gamine and her brother, remembers Gavroche being especially careful not to mention too much about his family.

"Éponine," Grantaire says aloud.

Jehan makes a higher pitched sound muffled in Grantaire's shirt sleeve that Grantaire translates to 'what?'. "That girl. At the Corinthe. She said her name was Éponine."

* * *

><p>"He should be somewhere nearby," Gavroche is saying. After being given their mission, the four of them had set out towards the Seine, stopping shortly a few times to question some of the other gamins that Gavroche was on friendly terms with. So far, they seemed to be heading the general direction this man was said to frequent in his work. Éponine thinks to herself about how her mother used to send her and Azelma on such trips. <em>Keeping the children entertained<em>, Éponine sighs inwardly.

Dion, who is holding Éponine's right hand and allowing himself to be lead down the street. Tugs lightly. "Éponine?"

"Hmm?" she looks down into the young boy's wide hazel eyes, so much like Azelma's that Éponine has to glance away, has to shut down that line of thinking because Azelma wasn't here anymore, was she? She wasn't living with Azelma anymore, and she certainly wasn't going to be seeing much of her sister if she could help it.

"Do ya' know that man? He's lookin' at you."

Something in Éponine's stomach drops and hits rock bottom. She feels a little ill as she lifts her head, scanning the crowd for the inevitable. Her father, perhaps, or one of the Patron Minette come along to drag her back to her father. Her twisting insides make the taste of bile rise in her throat, but she keeps her face composed. _I can handle it_, she tells herself. _I've been through worse. We are in public; he cannot hurt me. He cannot hurt me. _She repeats the thought as her eyes finally seek out the tall, thin frame of Montparnasse, dark hair slicked back, a dandy's smile curling his lips as he beckons her towards him.

Gavroche, who has paused to follow her gaze, nudges her elbow. "Are you goin'?"

She falters. "Should I?"

Her brother sucks in his lower lip, mulling it over. "He wouldn't come all by himself to stir up trouble. Plus, 'Parnasse likes you, 'Ponine. He wouldn't sent him to hurt ya'."

Éponine takes 'he' to mean their father, and steels herself. As of now, she is regretting having eaten so much at the Corinthe. Inhaling deeply, she releases Dion's hand. "I'll be back. Go find Belair; I will find you later. If not, I'll see you at the elephant."

"_Bonne chance_." Her brother salutes her, guiding Julien and Dion away.

* * *

><p>"Freedom suits you." Montparnasse flashes his teeth at her, his body slouched against the alley wall.<p>

Éponine says nothing at first, regarding him with suspicion. "What do you want, Montparnasse?"

"Only one day and I have been demoted from 'Parnasse' to 'Montparnasse'? Disappointing. But then again, you were always a fickle one, 'Ponine." Montparnasse's eyes seem to gleam with a kind of amusement as he straightens to his full, imposing height. When they were younger, Éponine had found these kind of teasing comments to be attractive. Now, she is not so sure. Montparnasse has reminded her of a feral animal ever since he'd gone down the dark path to the underworld. Montparnasse did not flinch when taking a life, not when there was a pouch of gold to be had from it. If she was being honest with herself, he frightened her a little.

She gets straight to the point. "Did my father send you?"

"I'm hurt. You think that would be the only reason I'd come to pay a call? We're friends, 'Ponine." Montparnasse holds a hand over his heart, looking offended, but Éponine doesn't buy it.

Éponine doesn't let up in her stern expression, and then it's a contest to see who will break first. After a moment's hesitation, Montparnasse relents, most likely because he has come for a favour, she thinks.

"I need some information," he tells her.

"Get it yourself," she retorts, just as firmly.

"Stop being so goddamn stubborn and listen to me, Éponine. I'll pay you for it, but I need this favour from you. I haven't told your father where you are - you owe me this much." Montparnasse's tone is quiet, deadly. "I already know you're going to that student meeting with Gavroche; all I want you to do is get me a list of names, and as much information you can on them."

Her eyes narrow. "What d'you need that for?" Éponine suspects the police are perhaps paying him off; after all, the group of students weren't exactly discrete about what they stood for and the rebellions they were planning, and while she didn't really support them she wasn't about to throw them under the fiacre, so to speak. You didn't turn on people for no reason, especially when they'd been decent to you.

Montparnasse becomes annoyed and reaches out to grab her wrist roughly. "I just do. You never asked questions when your father sent you on jobs; I don't want you asking questions now. All I need are names, jobs, addresses. Everything and anything. I told you I'll pay."

"I don't want your dirty money, Montparnasse!" Éponine says angrily in return, jerking her hand away. She wants to rub at the soreness, but she refuses to show weakness in front of him. "I won't do it. I've left for good. I'm not interested in whatever you're doing." She goes to turn away, to walk back to where her brother is waiting for her.

"You will be interested. I will make it your business to be interested, 'Ponine," he seethes, glaring mutinously at her. "You listen here: they're nothing but trouble, those boys. It's best you leave them alone and go back to the streets, where people like you and I belong. We're better than them, can't you see that? They call us poor wretches when they're nothing but rich filth. Things are going on here, things you don't understand. I'm telling you now to stay away before you get caught up in it."

His words shock her mid-step. Éponine glances back, just enough to see the mixed emotions whirling in his dark eyes. "You're wrong. Maybe not about what's going on, but you're wrong about where I belong. I know I don't belong with people like you and my father. I'm meant for something more, Montparnasse, and if you think I'm going to spend the rest of my life under someone's foot you're the one who's wrong!" Éponine spares him one last glare before turning back to the dock.

"If you think anyone's going to hire you for an honest job you're insane!" he calls after her retreating form. "There's nowhere for us to go, 'Ponine. Nowhere but the streets; you'll see soon enough."

* * *

><p><strong>To be continued ...<strong>

Now the plot gets interesting. Please leave some of your thoughts/speculation on what's to come!

Thanks to the fourteen followers, two favourites and two reviewers; I am glad to have you! Please let me know if you are reading/enjoying this fic by continuing to do so. :)


	3. First Blood

AN: We start off where I promised you we would: with Enjolras! Now, some of the foreshadowing in this chapter may not make sense right away, but rest assured it will come up again eventually. This chapter progresses a little quicker; it takes place over the course of around a day and a half. Enjoy!

*****Warning for aftermath of child abuse in this chapter.*****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three: First Blood<strong>

Someone coughs.

Enjolras ignores it, flipping the page on one of the three books spread out across his desk. Tapping the end of his pen against his chin, he tries to formulate the next sentence in his mind. Something to do with the fact that the mock case did not clearly present all of the information at hand ... it was full of bias and did not properly present the defendant's side.

Something about how the case seemed off ... that something was wrong ...

Another cough.

Crinkling his brows in irritation, Enjolras wishes the noise would stop. Determined to focus, he turns another page, trying to find inspiration in the law book Courfeyrac had likened to a brick because of its size. The words appear to blur into themselves. Frustrated, he rubs at his face a little, trying to concentrate.

"Enjolras!"

"What?" he snaps back, not thinking. Enjolras looks up to see Combeferre standing a few feet behind his shoulder, arms crossed over his chest. "Sorry."

"You're in a snit, Enjolras, so I forgive your temporary lapse in judgement as I always do," Combeferre says fondly, rolling his eyes.

"It is not a snit," he mutters in return.

"Notice of the meeting has been sent out," Combeferre continues as though not having heard him. "We should expect full attendance for this one. Musichetta is coming to confirm the newer members."

"Pontmercy and Belair, correct?" Enjolras repeats the names he had learned only recently.

"Yes. I expect it to be quite an eventful evening. We will need to be gentle with Marius, however, since he is not yet fully aware of his capabilities. We do not wish to frighten him, whatever Bahorel insists," Combeferre finishes with a smile.

"Of course," Enjolras agrees. "Is that all?"

"I had wanted to ask you," Combeferre hedges slowly, "to perhaps be more welcoming."

Enjolras frowns. "What do you mean?" He didn't think he had come off as rude or unpleasant the other night. If anything, it was the others who had been close to committing high treason in their raucous games and mock-fights.

"I mean that you seem very aloof." Combeferre seems to struggle for the correct word, something Enjolras has rarely seen him do ever, if at all. "Unapproachable. I know you believe you need to rein in your emotions to maintain control of your ability, Enjolras, but I think you're being overly cautious. There is no reason why you cannot enjoy yourself at these meetings."

"These meetings are of a serious nature; they should be taken just as seriously." Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose. "I make an effort to reach out to all new members in our group."

"Yes, to lecture them on the dangers of their abilities and any possible exposure of such." Combeferre shakes his head, but not unkindly. "I mean for you to learn more about them as a person, not as an ability. Their interests, dislikes and hobbies." Hesitation flickers across Enjolras' face, which Combeferre reads as the registration of this failing and guilt over not having considered it. "I know you tend to distance yourself from people, Enjolras. I don't wish to see you alone."

"I am not alone," Enjolras protests. "I have you. Les Amis."

"You know I worry about you more than I ought to," Combeferre says, in a soft, gentle tone. "I know you fear getting too close, of hurting people. I am the only one aside from Courfeyrac whom you have ever let in. I merely want you to consider the fact that your power should not prevent you from living your life, as you are constantly reminding us."

"I - I shall try." Enjolras' face closes off as he goes into deep thought. "Thank you for the suggestion." He turns back to his essay, seemingly reabsorbing himself in his work, but Combeferre hopes that he has finally broken through.

* * *

><p>"Gregoire Belair?"<p>

A man of average height and thick build looks up. His face is youthful yet slightly lined, and grey hair peeks out in-between dark, curly strands. "_Oui?_" He eyes the small group of gamins and the taller, older girl just behind them. "Can I help you?"

"We've been sent by M'sieur Bahorel to tell you of the next meeting," Gavroche speaks up, stepping forward. "He said to tell you that it will be in five days, at the usual time."

"And he sent four of you to complete such a task?" Belair smiles widely, crinkling the crows feet on either side of his face. "I feel very honoured." He fishes around in his pocket and comes up with a few coins. "Here," he holds his hand out and deposits a coin into each young boy's hand, ruffling the hair of the youngest one. "For your troubles."

The dark-haired girl, who has watched the exchange in a silent, observant way, attracts his attention. "And you, mademoiselle?" He offers the remaining piece out to her, but she flushes and doesn't step forward.

"I'll take it for her," the eldest boy proclaims loudly, snatching it up and dropping it away in a pocket. He tips his worn hat to Gregoire in a respectful fashion. "We shall see you in five days, then, m'sieur?" he says formally.

"I look forward to it," Gregoire answers jovially. The two older boys bow, the littlest one attempting a sort of funny salute before scampering after his cohorts. The girl shoots him one last look before departing behind them.

* * *

><p>"What are these meetings about?" Éponine asks Gavroche curiously, resisting the urge to glance backwards over her shoulder at Belair.<p>

"They're trying to help everyone," Gavroche begins, trying to frame his explanation in a way that won't offend his stubbornly defensive sister. "They're against the king, and they want everyone to be equal. All kids to go to school, and for everyone to have jobs and food and a place to live."

His sister snorts. "Sounds like that doesn't have a chance of happening at all. Where is all this magical food and money going to come from?"

"Courfeyrac says change comes slowly," Dion pipes up. "Not at all once. And he says it take a lot of work from many people."

"Well," Éponine says with a hint of sarcasm, "I'll be waiting eagerly."

A frown forms on Gavroche's face, but he says nothing. His sister's blatant dismissal of the idea is a bit disappointing, but then again Éponine had always gotten most of the brunt when it came to their parents. She was the favourite child, if there was such a thing in their family. Perhaps she was the one that was hated the least. Éponine was the most useful, the smartest and the quickest. She possessed an uncanny ability to think on her feet and keep a cool head, unlike Azelma, who frequently froze up and let panic overtake her.

Éponine, if he was being honest, was the strongest person he knew. He only wished she wouldn't bottle things up so often. Most of the time, Éponine was closed off, revealing only a surface of harsh words and witty retorts. The Éponine he knew, the one he saw when she let him in, was one who wanted to trust and to be appreciated, something none of the Thénardier siblings had ever experienced.

"That's what the regular meetings are for, anyhow. This one is only for special members," Gavroche finally says. "Come on, we got a lot more messages to deliver b'fore we're done for today."

* * *

><p>Azelma is sitting in the alley, nursing her bruised cheek and bloodied lip, remembering her father's sneer. Something trickles down he cheek but she ignores it, focusing instead of clamping down on the emotions welling up inside of her, pushing them away, forcing the walls up—<p>

"_They'll give you more money if you're hurt, anyway. Maybe if you weren't such a bloody idiot you could do some useful jobs instead of whoring yourself on the streets!"_

Something in her throat threatens to burst, choking her, but she keeps it in keeps it in doesn't let it out doesn't let herself feel because if she feels then—

—then what?

_Then you're weak,_ she tells herself dully. _And no one wants you if you're weak_. A lesson well-learned after years of working for her father, beaten into her mentality bit by bit. Weakness was as good as a sin to her family. Being weak was being selfish and putting yourself above your family. Being weak meant you didn't deserve to eat, and it meant you surely didn't deserve to go unpunished.

_Someday. Someday,_ she kept telling herself. _I'll find somewhere better to go. I'll find someone who maybe doesn't mind that I'm not as good as papa thinks I ought to be._

But someday was a long way away, especially when your todays were miserable.

_Her papa was gripping her wrist, and it hurt,but not as much as it was going to hurt, she knew. Azelma's lower lip trembled as she braced herself for the inevitable blow. Azelma couldn't help think of Éponine, of smart, brave Éponine who was always quicker than she, who was always more attuned to the ways of the streets in a manner Azelma could never match. Azelma awaited her father's sharp blow, thinking that perhaps she should have gone with her sister._

_The blow never came._

_"Let her go."_

_Instead, the hand around her wrist was torn away, the sick sound of the thin bone of her father's arm snapping filling the alley. His cry of pain confused her ears, because wasn't she the one who'd done wrong, wasn't she the one to be forced to serve penance for her mistakes? Her papa fell to his knees, ugly tears on his face as he cursed the tall man standing above him._

_His red hair, so like hers, startled Azelma. The gentle soul of the man who had only tried to help her had been replaced with the razor gaze of a monster. Even so, the monster's gaze softened slightly upon looking at her. The other men, her father's gang, attempted to rush him all at once, and Azelma gasped, fear coursing through her veins, but it was for naught._

_The monster made quick work of them, snapping limbs carelessly with the strength of a hundred men, his friend looking on with worry. Finished with his work, the man cracked his knuckles, green eyes surveying the damage done. He turned back to her, but Azelma did not flinch. She did not fear this man, because for whatever reason he had protected her._

The tears came fast and silent, the way she'd learned to cry in the confines of her own home. There was always yelling - loud sounds of screeching animals - and it made her head hurt and her ears hurt and her heart hurt. She would never be perfect enough; never be worth listening to, according to them.

She'd been hoping her entire life, but she never thought anyone would ever see the girl hiding behind the layers of masks she put on every day.

Her chest heaved with each deep breath she took, but she was unable to calm herself. Arms shaking, she uncurled herself and leaned against the wall, eyes shut tight in an attempt to stop feeling.

She retreats into her mind, pulling into the one place where no one can touch her. Azelma can close her eyes and dream of better days, of soft touches and warm smiles. When she dreams, she can dream that today is not so far away, and that maybe someday isn't just a hopeless idea, but something tangible and within reach.

When she dreams, she has hope; for Azelma, that may be all she'll ever have.

* * *

><p>What now?<p>

Cosette once again has found herself in the gardens, watching the handsome, curly-haired boy from across the way. She wishes she was here on her own, that she could admire him without her father seated by her side, but it's a wish that preludes to guilt. Her father only wants the best for her, even if he doesn't realize that what's best is for her to experience some things on her own, to meet new people and do exciting, terrifying things.

Even more guilt-provoking is what she is currently doing, using her strange ability to tap into the thoughts of the young man. She wants to know what he thinks of her, does he think her attractive? Does he find her interesting? Insecurities and lack of confidence surge within her, allowing her to continue to probe until she hears what she is searching for.

— _she's looking at me, I wonder why; do I have something on my face? — _

Cosette flushes, forcing herself to not look up, to not glance and give it away that she is looking, because she feels shy, and shyness does not allow for the bold sort of looks Cosette had seen women give their beaus.

— _she looks very pretty today ... maybe I could go talk with her ... her father is there; he may not appreciate that ... I wish I knew where she lived ... I could pay a call, or at least be able to see her more often —_

From beside her, her papa clears his throat. "Shall we return home for the day?"

"Um, yes. I suppose," Cosette answers distractedly. He stands, offering his hand to her, and she pulls herself up.

— _oh, she's leaving_ —

The disappointed sound of his voice leads her to do something bold. Something so bold that she would have normally never considered it otherwise. Cosette slips her dainty hand into her pocket, retrieving with two fingers the slip of paper she had prepared earlier today. Dropping it on the bench behind her, she lifts her head and slides her gaze over to her handsome stranger. A pause, and then she smiles at him long enough to let him know the note is for him before her papa is guiding her home once more.

* * *

><p><em>that evening …<em>

* * *

><p>Smog drifts along the edge of the Seine, settling in Gregoire's lungs as he heads home from the docks, whistling a folk song as he goes. Beside him, he can see the water swirling in his direction as he crosses the bridge. Just for fun, he raises a free hand, glancing over his shoulder briefly to see if anyone is nearby, and twists a finger through the air. As though drawn by some unseen force, a small spout of river water flies up in a mimic of his actions. Gregoire smiles to himself.<p>

It is a blessing to have such a gift. They were all blessed. His ability had brought him great fortune, first as a young fisherman and now as a sailor in the French navy. It had led him to Les Amis d'ABC, a great group of men just like him, albeit younger, with their own unique abilities.

Gregoire allows the water to settle back down into the Seine and continues on his journey. The shadows flicker oddly on the ground, as though someone was controlling them, too. Gregoire whistles a little louder to hide his nervousness, puffing his chest out a little in a display of male bravado. He tries to turn his path into a game, stepping across the cobblestones, squashing the shifting shadows beneath his feet. Still, he feels a disturbing presence dogging his footsteps that he can't quite seem to shake.

A soft clicking sound sends a chill coursing through his body. Gregoire stops whistling.

"Who is there?" he calls out. "I am armed, you know." This is true - he has his ability at hand, no pun intended.

A man's soft chuckle fills the air, eerie and dangerous in its invisibility. "_I am armed, as well_."

"You know not who you are dealing with," Gregoire says, with more courage than he feels. "I am a sailor, strong and well-trained. I suggest you turn around, sir."

The man merely sounds amused. "_I could say the same to you. I am much more dangerous than you think. I, too, have a very special ability._"

That comment makes Gregoire pause. Another person with an ability? how many, then, lurked about in Paris, unknown, unchecked? Gregoire would have to inform Feuilly about this the next time they met each other. "Have we met? The other night ... at the meeting ..." He trails off. The cool demeanour of the man is disquieting.

"_We have not. Let us say we know each other through ... mutual acquaintances._"

Gregoire pictures the man to have a crooked smile on his face full of sharp teeth, like a predatory animal that blends with the shadows, searching for prey.

Gregoire swallows nervously. He does not want to be prey, but the unsettling feeling has not left, it has merely intensified since the beginning of his conversation with this unseen man. "Really, and who might this mutual acquaintance be?"

"_I'm afraid that would be a conversation for another day_ ..." The man steps forward, just enough for Gregoire to make out his features: a devilish smirk on his lips, a glint in his eyes. "_Or not_."

* * *

><p><em>the next day …<em>

* * *

><p>It is breezy outside as Adrienne offers her husband her cheek for a quick kiss. "Be careful, <em>ma cherie<em>."

"Aren't I always?" Philippe brushes his lips against her skin, his hand sliding through her fine hair. "I shall be home early, perhaps, if Javert allows me to." He touches her swollen, rounded stomach gently. "Tell Angelique _adieu_ for me. Is she still asleep?"

"Very much so," Adrienne smiles. Their little girl, who was normally wide awake and begging for entertainment at this hour, had worn herself out the previous evening pretending to be a dancer and concocting an elaborate sequence of steps that seemed to change every time she performed them.

"_Au revoir_." Philippe touches her arm and presses another kiss to her forehead before finally departing for the prefecture.

Adrienne shuts the door and goes to wake Angelique for a late breakfast. Her daughter is upstairs, curled on her mattress, blanket entangled with her skinny, freckled limbs. Her arms are protectively wrapped around her stuffed cat, worn and mangy from years of adventures.

"_Bon matin_," she whispers, softly stroking her little one's brown, wavy hair. "Time to wake up."

Angelique moans and rolls over, burying her face into her pillow. "No, _maman_. A few more minutes. I'm still sleepy."

"You need to get up. I have apples for you and Minou," Adrienne says, attempting to coax her out of the covers.

"Minou wants to sleep too," Angelique says, turning away. "Is papa here?"

"Papa has gone to work, ma coeur. He may be back early tonight." Adrienne thinks of how hard her husband works, and wishes his supervisor would be easier on him. While Philippe never complained of Javert, Adrienne was sure she had complained enough for the both of them. The man simply had no idea what it was like to have a family; he had nothing other than his job and the law. Part of Adrienne pitied him, but the other part - the part of her that hated dinners without her husband - disagreed.

"Mmmm. Okay." Angelique snuggles back into her pillow, intent on going back to bed.

"Come on, up!" Adrienne shakes her shoulder. "You have lessons today. We can't be late, now can we? You have already slept in; we'll have to eat on the way." Angelique attends a small girls' school nearby. Adrienne and Philippe had made sure to purchase a home near a school for their children to attend. Children plural, because Adrienne herself was an only child, and she had always wished for siblings when she was younger. Both she and Philippe had agreed a larger family was something they wanted for their children.

Something bumps from inside her stomach, and Adrienne absently rubs it, wondering if the life inside of her will grow to be a young boy or girl. She pictures a little boy with Philippe's dark hair and her own brown eyes, round cheeked and merry, full of boundless energy, intelligence and curiosity like his father. She imagine he will grow to be a great man, one that she and Philippe would be extremely proud of, and that thought brings a smile to her lips.

Angelique finally rises, and Adrienne sets about their daily routine, packing her daughter's school things and ushering her out the door with a few minutes to spare. A half-hour's journey for there and back, and then Adrienne has the house to herself for the afternoon. She is supposed to take things easy, as to not strain herself, but this does not prevent her from moving about and straightening a few things here and there. She feels tired after, but everything she does makes her feel tired, so she supposes doing anything else would be no different. Still, Philippe would be upset to find that she strained herself by being silly. Shuffling up the stairs into her room, Adrienne feels a strange breeze blow through her hair. Strands of black stick to her face, as she brushes them off, irritated. Puzzled, she walks over to the window, only to find it shut, the latch closed. Glancing around the room, there doesn't appear to be anything that could have caused the strange wind.

Perhaps she was simply imagining things.

* * *

><p><em>In this dream, a small boy with dark eyes blinks innocently. His features are distorted, constantly swimming in Javert's vision as he attempts to step forward to retrieve the child. "Where are your parents?" he wants to ask, but finds it impossible to do so, as he is being pummeled by a merciless wind. The sheer force of it cuts at his skin like knives, and Javert is horrified to find that that is indeed the case. His uniform is shredded up and down the sleeves, clean through to the skin, blood seeping through in thin rivers, dripping into puddles on the floor.<em>

_The sense of urgent danger only intensifies further as the boy approaches, drenched in what Javert sees to be blood._

"_I didn't mean to," the child whispers, tears streaking down his muddled face. "Please, I didn't mean to! Mother, I'm sorry … Help me …"_

_Javert tries to speak, but his voice would be lost in the howling winds. Not only that, but he is afraid that if he does, his windpipe will be the next thing to be severed. His own fear disgusts him, but he is helpless for it. The boy reaches out, a small, blood-covered hand stretching across the vast emptiness towards him, and Javert recoils without thinking._

"_Don't you worry, petit," a voice from somewhere behind him croons. "It will be alright. I will help you ..."_

_Struggling within the harsh winds, Javert tries to turn around, to put a face to the eerie, soft voice, but finds he cannot. The boy's hesitation is clear._

"_You'll help me?"_

"_Yes. I will help you become normal once more. I will help you rid yourself of this curse that plagues you, little one. You will have no reason to fear." The voice is seductive, gentle, almost. His tone is that of a mother speaking with her child, but Javert can sense the trick behind the promises this man is making._

_Blinking, the winds begin to slow, the boy scrunching his young face as everything slowly grows silent, the wind fading to a soft breeze. "Normal?"_

"_Don't go to him, child," Javert says immediately, but the boy does not hear him._

"_That's it. Come to me, and I will fix everything." The air around them is still now, the little boy taking slow steps towards the unseen stranger._

_A hand stretches out, thin and pale, and before Javert can say anything else, the boy has placed his own small hand in it, face hopeful and trusting._

_The last thing he hears before waking is a horrified scream._

* * *

><p>The first thing Phillippe notices when he arrives at the prefecture is the dark circles under his superior's eyes.<p>

"Bonjour, sir," Philippe says. He gets no response, merely a brief nod of the head. But Javert has always been stoic and austere, however, so Philippe takes no insult to this. "Are we to make the normal rounds?"

"There's been a body discovered. We are to head out immediately," Javert says without preamble.

Swallowing loudly, Philippe clears his throat. He did not much like bodies. "Where?"

"It was found washed upon the side of the Seine this morning. Apparent drowning." Straightening his coat, Javert begins to walk towards the exit. Philippe falls into step beside him. "Victim is a man in his mid- to late- thirties. Upon questioning those in the area, we learned the identity of the man to be Gregoire Belair."

Philippe blinks, a little startled. "We already know all of this so soon?"

"I myself had gotten an early start to the day, Dupont," Javert's eyes shift to his briefly as he hails a fiacre. The two of them get in. "I had only just returned to await your arrival with the intention of informing you of this case." Javert gives the driver the address of the crime scene.

"Right," Phillippe agrees uneasily, shifting in his seat as the driver starts.

"I am not berating you for not doing the same," Javert adds as an afterthought. "I understand you have a family. It is not possible for all members in the prefecture to come in early morning."

This has been the most Javert has ever acknowledged the fact that Philippe had a wife and child at home. "Thank you, sir." Then, feeling emboldened, he decides to elaborate further on his home life, "My wife and I are expecting another very soon. We are hoping for a boy."

"Very well," Javert says pleasantly, but a small crease appears between his brows. Philippe, ever sensitive to the slightly shifting moods of his superior, notices.

"Is something the matter?" Philippe asks without thinking.

"No," Javert answers, after a beat of hesitation. "Nothing is the matter."

Philippe would have left it at that, if not for a peculiar sensation working its way down his spine. An odd sort of itch that crawls gently down his back, almost ticklish. Philippe shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "You're sure?"

"Yes," Javert snaps. "Now let us focus on our case."

The tingle is still there, but a second after Javert's statement it fades, leaving them in silence. Philippe clasps his hands together on his lap, staring blankly out the window as he mulls over the statement. The reaction made little to no sense at all. Why on earth would Philippe's second child bother the inspector? It was, perhaps, simply a coincidence. Surely Javert had other, more important things on his mind and that was the heart of the matter.

When the horses pull to a stop, Philippe focuses himself. Stepping out, he can see a body laying on a tarp, covered to prevent prying eyes. A few officers are stationed to keep onlookers away from the scene. His insides are doing flips as he approaches, Javert a few steps ahead of him. Swallowing, Philippe watches at Javert gestures for one of the men to uncover the victim.

The bloated, pale body of a man gazes, unseeing, at the cloudy fall skies. His hair is still damp with river water, the entirety of him covered in muck and debris, his mouth hanging open in a grotesque imitation of a fish. Dark veins pop from the white skin, like thick tendrils snaking across the body, ensnaring it.

"D-do we know whether or not he fell in? Was this a suicide?" Philippe finally manages to ask.

"As far as we know, Belair did not exhibit any outward signs of wanting to commit suicide. He had made plans with some coworkers for drinks later that evening. It is unlikely, but not improbable, that he would have agreed to such a meeting unless the intention was for them to notice his absence. The body bears no visible marks of violence, but to be sure we will need to clean it off."

Bile churns and rises in his throat, but Philippe manages to keep it down. "Very well. Is there anything we can do at this moment, aside from examining the scene?"

"Normally we would be questioning friends and family, but in this case Belair had only recently relocated to Paris. He has no family to speak of, according to his coworkers, and keeps mostly to himself. They did mention he had attending some sort of event or meeting at a cafe, but where they are not certain."

"I see." Philippe manages to avoid looking at the body.

Javert frowns at him. "If are at all uncomfortable with the situation, I can have you reassigned," he adds sharply.

"I am fine. I will be fine," he corrects, attempting to sound confident. "I am not used to seeing such things." It had only been recently that Philippe had been assigned under Javert's command. Before this, he had merely done patrols and such, arresting thieves and crooks when the need arose. Working this case, a possible murder case, was another case altogether quite literally.

"No one should have to be," Javert says grimly, eyes hard. "But we will discover what happened here, no doubt. If someone was responsible for this man's murder, we will find the killer. Justice will not escape merely because the physical evidence has been washed away; it will prevail, as it always should, through faith and hardwork."

Philippe bit his lower lip. "Yes, sir."

* * *

><p><em>later that afternoon …<em>

* * *

><p>"He's dead."<p>

Feuilly blinks, uncomprehending. "What do you mean?"

"Gregoire. They found his body in the Seine this morning ... they said he drowned. That's the official statement." Combeferre trails off, looking worried. A thin line creases his brow, and his eyes appear disturbed.

"That's impossible. How could that have happened?" Joly asks nervously.

"We know; it is more than simply suspicious. I have called an emergency meeting tonight in the Musain in light of this development. The new recruits will have to be brought in as well, so they can be properly warned against this threat. This is not the first time someone has been killed over the past few months, with or without an ability, but it is most definitely the boldest. We think the killer may be trying to send us a message," Enjolras replies.

"Do you think ..." Bossuet hesitates. "That the killer may have -?" He cuts himself off, not wanting to say what they all were thinking.

Courfeyrac, for once, is grim. "Perhaps. It is best to err on the side of caution in this case."

"Gavroche," Bahorel says suddenly, "and his sister. What of them?"

"They will attend as well. It is best for us all to stand together during this time of need," Combeferre says firmly.

Enjolras nods in agreement. "I won't lie; these events are upsetting, to say the least. The idea that there is a person or are persons in Paris looking to harm us is disturbing news. Combeferre is correct in stating we must stay together. Our best hope in bringing Gregoire Belair's murderer to justice is by combining our talents to do so." His eyes scan the room, meeting each of the Amis' in turn. "I'm entrusting all of you to help spread the word quickly to all members with abilities."

"We do not know if Gavroche's sister has an ability for certain," Bossuet points out.

Jehan frowns, deliberating. "She's as close to a guardian as we'll get. I'll admit I feel better knowing that she's looking out for Gavroche and the boys. They may be smart, resourceful boys, but they are still young ones. Besides, Combeferre, you mentioned that it was likely that the gene could be passed through generations, correct? It is highly possible that she possesses some sort of power as well."

"She still has ties to that gang that tried to rob us," Grantaire says in an undertone to Prouvaire. "Are you sure this is a smart move?"

"She left for a reason," Jehan defends in the same tone, "quite obviously for the same reason Gavroche did. Their father is a monster."

"We'll invite her," Combeferre finally decides aloud. "Because if her brother is in danger she will need to know."

"It's a risk," Enjolras disagrees. "We do not know her well enough to anticipate her reaction."

"Do we know anyone well enough to anticipate their reaction?" Grantaire scoffs. "I remember when Joly joined—"

The man in question turns pink in the face under the scrutiny. The event in question had induced two panic attacks as well as two broken bones and a fractured knee-cap. Needless to say, Bossuet had been one of the injured parties. It was an event no one particularly enjoyed recalling.

"We must have faith," Courfeyrac says good-naturedly. "And trust. That is our goal, is it not? Despite this news, we must remember that, at heart, we strive to unite everyone, not only those with abilities, but all of Paris as a people."

"Still, I would have more peace of mind if we knew more about what is happening," Enjolras says, looking to Combeferre. "If you could contact Ophelia, that would be extremely helpful."

Combeferre bites his lower lip. "The last missive she sent me said she was travelling the outskirts of Scotland. It may take her a while to get here, and by then ..." The unspoken words are there: by then, it might be too late.

Enjolras blows out a frustrated sound. "All the same, do try. We could use her expertise on this matter."

"Of course," Combeferre nods curtly. "I'll go start on it now."

* * *

><p><em>that evening …<em>

* * *

><p>Pulling out his worn leather journal, Philippe opens the cover and flips through the pages until he reaches yesterdays date. His own handwriting greets his eyes, slanted and nearly illegible to anyone else who tried to read it. Smiling a little to himself, Philippe pens todays date at the top of the next page. September 21st. Upon recording the events of the investigation of the death of Gregoire Belair, and the following disturbance reported by a group of students having been attacked by the group called the Patron Minette, Philippe adds a note about the odd tingling sensation he had experienced earlier in the carriage. It was not the first time it had happened, and it certainly did not appear to be the last. Philippe's father, Jean-Paul Dupont, had been a great thinker who prided himself on his intelligence, and had passed on much of this ability to his only son.<p>

Logically, the best approach was to find some sort of correlation between what Philippe referred to as 'episodes'. They happened sporadically, sometimes often, sometimes not. Mostly, they happened while he was working, or dealing with suspects and/or criminals. Very rarely did it occur at home, although upon occasion it would manifest itself while he spoke to his daughter, Angelique. What he had so far deduced, over the course of nearly a year, since it had begun last February, was that it occurred when he was speaking with someone or within hearing distance of another conversation. It was not related to the age, gender, or race of the speaker. The time of day did not matter; neither did the topic nor the mood of the situation. It simply happened. There was no explanation so far, but Philippe was determined to find one. Stubbornness was yet another inherited trait from his father.

There was a soft knock at the door. "_Mon cher_? Are you coming to bed?" His beautiful wife of seven years peeks her head of dark hair around the frame, a tiny smile upon her lips. She appears regal and elegant, even in a cotton nightgown, her stomach rounded with child, and Philippe marvels over the strong, wonderful woman before him.

"Yes. Soon. Is Angelique asleep?"

"She is. Much like you, the loudest of noises will not be able to rouse her," Adrienne answers wryly. "Don't forget to put out the candle when you are done."

Philippe makes an affirmative sound, watching as Adrienne waddles back to their room. "Make sure to not strain yourself," he calls after her in a low voice.

He can hear her snort even as the door closes behind her. Philippe sighs.

Finishing his entry, he closes the book and slips it into his drawer before standing, stretching his limbs and wincing at the popping sounds his joints make. The mystery of the episodes would have to wait for another day. Rubbing tiredly at his face, Philippe puts out the candle wanders in darkness into the bedroom. The lights are out there, too, but there is moonlight streaming through the window onto the sleeping form of his wife. She is propped up a little on the pillows, arms wrapped protectively around her stomach. Unlike most pregnant women he had known (although they had been few in number, the experience of knowing one was enough to have frightened any newly wed man expecting a child), Adrienne never complained about finding her pregnant self unattractive or her swollen ankles being fat. In fact, when she looked into the mirror she often cried, because in her fit of hormones she would exclaim that their child was perhaps one of the loveliest things she had ever seen, and he was hard-pressed to argue with her about that. Adrienne forever preached to her friends that these were simply the trials of motherhood, and hadn't each of their own mothers bore these weights in turn, suffering for the love of a child that, after a period of nine months, would be born into the world?

Leaning over to stroke her hair, Philippe settles down on the bed next to her. Adrienne stirs, eyelashes fluttering as she blinks at him. "Took you long enough."

He chuckles a little, placing a kiss to her brow, smoothing a few loose strands of hair behind her ear with his fingertips. "_Je t'aime._"

"I love you too," she murmurs, touching his cheek. "Now get some sleep. Goodness knows you need it."

* * *

><p>In the wash of unfamiliar faces, Éponine feels at home. Lost in the crowd, she blends with the shadows, a mere observer amongst these outspoken students. Gavroche shoots her furtive looks every so often from where he is perched on the table next to Courfeyrac, swinging his legs out, Dion and Julien sharing a chair next to him.<p>

Someone approaches the doorway, their face illuminated by the glow of the room as they remove their thick fall coat, draping it over their arm. The newcomer is another young man, a student, with a soft red flush suffusing his cheeks, blending in with his freckles. Shaking the chill of the autumn air from his shoulders, he walks in, straight past her, towards her brother's table.

"Courfeyrac," the boy greets him breathlessly. "Apologies for my tardiness. I had decided to walk instead of taking a fiacre, and I'm afraid I wandered off course for a while."

"My apologies for the short notice," Courfeyrac says in return, pulling out a chair for his friend. "Next time I will accompany you."

"Sounds fine," Marius agrees, sitting down, taking in the room at large. "Now, what is this sudden meeting all about? It seems the attendance is lower."

"Only certain members were invited to this one, Marius," Courfeyrac explains, in a low tone that Éponine has to strain to hear. "You shall see why in a moment."

Why, indeed? Éponine is under the impression that this meeting had nothing whatsoever to do with the political aspects of Les Amis; she and Gavroche had been invited while some of the other upperclassmen university students were missing, but was unsure as to what this new, urgent matter could be. Perhaps they needed her knowledge of the streets to further their cause, but that did not explain the other students' absences. _They're ashamed to have a waif in their midst_, a voice in her head whispers. _They don't want their friends to know they associate with filth like you. Especially after what your father's gang did to their friends._

Éponine stiffens her spine, wondering if she should go. She hadn't come here to be mocked, and she certainly never did something for nothing.

Enjolras, the fine-haired leader of this marvelous cause, approaches her with a tall, ebony-haired woman who's pretty, sharp features make Éponine immediately jealous.

"You are Éponine, right?" The other woman has a wide, pleasing smile and sparkling eyes. "My name is Musichetta. Pleased to finally meet you." She holds out a hand, which Éponine hesitantly accepts. Musichetta's hand is soft to the touch, her fingers long and smooth, the nails rounded.

After a moment, Enjolras hesitantly interjects: "You are probably wondering why you have been invited to this meeting. All I can ask is for you to keep an open mind. The topics for discussion today are of the utmost importance, but can be quite shocking to some."

It must be to do with the murders, Éponine decides. It would be just like these students to throw themselves into such a dangerous situation. She thinks of Montparnasse's warnings to stay away, and suddenly they are not so unfounded. "Is this because of Belair?"

Enjolras' face grows even grimmer, if possible. "Yes. That is part of it."

"It's a shame," she mumbles. "He was very nice."

"Well, as you and Marius are the two most recent additions, I felt it wise for you both to be seated with Musichetta when the meeting starts, so she can explain things further to you as we continue," Enjolras continues briefly.

"I have been given the honor of being the receptionary branch of our group," Musichetta says wryly. "I welcome all new members into the fold."

"Alright," Éponine says, for lack of anything else to add.

Angered at what she believes to be his disdain for her, Éponine merely nods her head in response, not trusting herself to speak. She'd been right. They thought she was beneath them, didn't they? She didn't have to stand for this. They might treat Gavroche and the boys like cute pets to be looked after, but she was Éponine Thénardier, and she caved to no one, not anymore. Not Montparnasse, not her father, not anyone. He didn't want to talk to her? Well, she wasn't about to give him the choice. Clenching her fists, she debates stomping over and giving blond bourgeois boy a piece of her mind, but a small hand on her arm stills her.

"Don't take it personally," Musichetta murmurs in an undertone. "He's like that with almost everyone, not just you. He's not a very social person."

Éponine isn't sure whether she should take Musichetta's words to heart, since Enjolras seemed to be perfectly alright conversing with others the previous night.

"He's even worse with women, but don't worry. He'll get used to you eventually," Musichetta concludes, reaching over to pat her hand in a sympathetic manner. "We just need to be patient with Enjolras. He works very hard as it is."

Feeling uncomfortable, Éponine changes the subject. "So what is this meeting about? I doubt it's only to welcome Marius and I."

"Have you ever felt ... as though you were different? Special? Like you were meant for some greater purpose?" Musichetta asks slowly, as though choosing her words with great care. "Do you possess an ability that allows you to do things others could only fathom?" Her voice drops to a smoky, breathless whisper, enticing and seductive, sending a shiver down Éponine's spine. "Something you've not shared with anyone, that you kept hidden away?"

Éponine feels herself stiffen - feels the icy, numb feeling flooding her veins without a second's thought, her body reacting naturally the only way it knows how to when faced with fear - it turns to stone.

* * *

><p>The silence spreads throughout the room like a disease, infecting one to another as conversations falter and eyes drift to the marble girl standing off to the side. In the orange, fiery candlelight, the smooth surface of her skin seems to almost flicker and glow, her dark hair draped in tendrils over her stone shoulders. Of all the things they've seen, they have never seen a full transformation of the body before - not physically, at least.<p>

The young woman does not let out a single sound, although the slight hint of darker veins on her face suggests the manifestation of a mortified blush as her wide eyes scan the room, her expression taking on that of a wounded, frightened animal as she bolts out the door, her feet solidly hitting the floor with each step.

_Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._ The noise fades away as she retreats down the steps and out the the front door.

Musichetta, usually unshakable, is thin-lipped, her face paler than normal as she clears her throat "It's my fault. I'll go after her," she says to no one in particular, picking up her skirts and following the marble woman out the door.

From across the room, a pair of cool blue eyes shine with something that can only be described as interest.

From outside, someone decides to strike.

* * *

><p><strong>To be continued ...<strong>

I don't know if anyone's noticed, but I've been doing my best to try and update once a month at the least, with a buffer chapter completed so I have some wiggle room if I tweak the plot. School, however, has proven successful in kicking me in the butt and draining me of all happiness and leisure time, so the buffer chapter is now more of a 5,000 word buffer, which is not bad, but half of that count is a scene written for later on.

I will not abandon this story, but updates will continue to be slow. Thank you for continuing to read! I hope you liked this chapter, and if you did, please drop a note to say so! It really does mean a lot, and encourages me to write more and write faster when I know you guys are waiting.


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